


i'd make a little home for you

by omoiyaris



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Fódlan Setting (Fire Emblem), Cooking Lessons, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, and Ashe's family, and feelings, appearances from a few other characters, there is a lot of food
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29029986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omoiyaris/pseuds/omoiyaris
Summary: Unsatisfied with his regular, boring life, office worker Ashe signs up for an evening cooking class as a way to pursue his passion for food. The last person he expects to meet there is Dedue, an old friend who'd abruptly vanished from his life years ago. In the midst of rekindling their former friendship, Ashe realizes that the crush he thought he'd buried may not be as dead as he expected it to be
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert & Dedue Molinaro, Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 22
Kudos: 35
Collections: The Three Houses AU Bang





	1. recipe one

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for so long that it feels surreal to finally throw it out into the wild, but here's my piece for the Three Houses AU Big Bang! 
> 
> I was lucky enough to work with two amazing artists for this fic, Ash ([@quillifer](https://twitter.com/quillifer)) and Jess ([@chuminder](https://twitter.com/chuminder)). They made some lovely pieces to accompany this fic which I'll embed in the relevant chapters, but here are some links so you can check them out now (and you should)!
> 
> You can find Ashe's pieces [here](https://i.ibb.co/xCzJPG3/proj1-1.jpg), [here](https://i.ibb.co/5LmpsVM/photo1.png), and [here](https://i.ibb.co/V25Tvvx/proj1-2.png), and you can find Jess' [here](https://i.ibb.co/bPFCkQB/ashedueaubb-f1.jpg)!
> 
> Thank so much to the mods for hosting this event!
> 
> Updates will be a little infrequent due to real life issues, but I’m hoping to get back on track soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The artwork embedded in this chapter was done by Ash ([@quillifer](https://twitter.com/quillifer)). You can view the full version of baby Ashe and his father [here](https://i.ibb.co/xCzJPG3/proj1-1.jpg), a full version of chef Dedue [here](https://i.ibb.co/5LmpsVM/photo1.png), and a full-body version of chef Dedue [here](https://i.ibb.co/V25Tvvx/proj1-2.png)!

Four months into his job at Gaspard Securities, Ashe abruptly decides to quit. 

His newfound resolve lasts all of five minutes—incidentally, the same amount of time it takes to reach Christophe’s office from the kitchen area. What sounded like a good idea while he wrestled with the ancient coffee machine seems less so as he raps his knuckles against the glass door, a look of sheer desperation on his face.

Holding back a laugh, Christophe gestures for him to come in. Ashe cradles his hard-won cup of coffee close to his chest as he enters and closes the door behind him with a soft _click!_ Christophe kicks the empty chair towards him from under his desk and nods. “Take a seat,” he says, eyes trained on his screen. “I just need to send out one last email—”

“ _Oof_.” The chair hits him squarely in the stomach, and Ashe rubs the sore spot with a frown before sinking into the stiff plastic seat. “I’m not in a hurry,” he says, taking a small sip of his drink. The coffee is still scalding thanks to the buggy controls of the machine; he makes a mental note to ask Lonato’s assistant to look into replacing it. “I just… needed to talk, but it can wait till after work.”

“Don’t worry about it, squirt.” Christophe hits the enter button with a flourish and swivels to look at him with a wide grin. “I could use an excuse to slack off. What’s bothering you?” 

This isn’t the first time Ashe has ended up in his brother’s office battling a crisis, but the crises in question usually have something to do with a frozen computer screen or a disgruntled employee, not whatever this is—a crisis of the _existential_ kind, perhaps, but he’s never had one of those before so he honestly can’t tell.

Still, Christophe is used to this enough that he barely bats an eye as Ashe leans his weight back in the chair and sighs. “I think I’m in a slump,” he admits after a pause. “I’m not really sure if I can carry on with the way things are.” 

He can’t put his finger on precisely why, but he knows he’s unsatisfied with something. As much as Ashe doesn’t intend for it to affect his work, a persistent restlessness snakes through his veins, sapping his focus and eating away at his motivation. Try as he may, he hasn’t been able to fix the problem on his own. In fact, things seem to be getting _worse_ as the days pass.

“Burnt out so soon?” Christophe asks. He doesn’t sound surprised by Ashe’s confession. Reclining back in his chair, he folds his hands over his chest and studies Ashe through half-lidded eyes. When Ashe makes a small noise of affirmation, Christophe shakes his head. “Is it the job? The coffee? Or…” he lowers his voice, frowning. “Is it Dad?” 

“No!” Ashe nearly falls out of his seat in his haste to deny Christophe’s words. “No, no, and _no_.” His job may not be thrilling, but it pays the bills well enough, and the coffee is… admittedly bad, but not enough that it’s pushing Ashe out the door. Lonato certainly doesn’t have anything to do with it. He’s aware that working for your adopted father isn’t everyone’s idea of a good time, but Ashe is happy to be of use to Lonato in whatever way he can. 

“It isn’t any of that—I don’t hate my job, and I’m grateful to Dad. He was kind enough to hire me in the first place, after all.” He sets his cup of coffee down on Christophe’s desk. “I don’t have any reason to complain.” 

Christophe raises an eyebrow and gives him a pointed look. 

“I’m fine!” If Ashe has no reason to complain, then he shouldn’t. Dragging a hand down his face, he straightens up and gives Christophe a lopsided smile. “I’ll just—I’m sorry for bothering you.” 

“You know, it’s okay to say your heart’s not in all this,” Christophe says casually. Ashe’s expression stiffens. “Neither Dad nor I am going to be offended if you tell us you want to do something else with your life.” He grins, suddenly, his tone turning teasing. “Like culinary school?” 

Ashe suppresses a groan. It’s a familiar enough refrain, though Christophe takes great care not to bring it up around their father. In his eyes, the root of Ashe’s problems is clear: the fact that he turned down the opportunity to attend culinary school after high school and opted for a safer career path instead. Christophe’s convinced if he had pursued his childhood dreams, he would’ve won _Fodlan’s Top Chef_ by now. 

The support is appreciated, even if Ashe thinks his brother gives him more credit that he deserves. “Culinary school isn’t an option anymore.” 

“Why not? It’s never too late to start over and do something you love.” Christophe’s voice is measured and gentle, the way it always is when giving Ashe advice that he may not want to hear. “I’d rather see you happy than sighing in my office all the time.” His expression morphs into a smirk. “You know that every time you sigh, a little bit of happiness escapes?” 

“I don’t think that’s true.” But his words pull a chuckle out of Ashe regardless. He reaches for his now lukewarm coffee and takes a big sip, mulling over Christophe’s words. For the most part, he doesn’t regret any of the decisions he’s made. Things that are meant to happen will happen in their own time, and things that aren’t simply won’t. 

When he graduated high school, he found himself staring down a scholarship to Garreg Mach University, Lonato and Christophe’s alma mater, and an acceptance into the Fhirdiad Institute of Culinary Arts. After spending weeks agonizing over the decision of where to go, Ashe eventually settled on Garreg Mach. 

It didn’t make sense to turn such a wonderful offer down. Lonato seemed pleased with his decision as well, and as a result, Ashe felt confident in it. He’d outlined a life plan later: graduate in four years with a communications degree and then come to work at his family’s securities firm. It made sense. It felt _secure_. 

Ashe never realized security had a price. These days, he’s usually listless—not bored, exactly, but jittery, like a mouse trapped in a cage. Although he’s never regretted the decision his eighteen year old self made, he _has_ come close to questioning it. There are nights where he finds himself staring up at the ceiling, wondering how his life would’ve changed if he’d chosen a different path. 

“I don’t want to let anyone down,” he says finally, hugging the cup to his chest. “I can’t help but think I’m being selfish and greedy by wanting more. I have a good life—the kind of life others would kill for. I know that I should be happy with that.”

“You’re not letting anyone down by having dreams, Ashe,” Christophe says incredulously. He leans forward and places his palms flat on his desk. “I know you’ve always been a nice, serious kid, and that’s great, but there’s a limit to how good you can be. You chose Garreg Mach for Dad’s sake—don’t deny it,” he adds sternly, when Ashe opens his mouth to protest. “I’m not going to comment on whether you were wrong or right for that. All I’m going to say is that you won’t be letting anyone down if you admit this isn’t working out and choose to follow your heart instead.” 

He swallows thickly. Emotion pricks at the corner of his eyes, and Christophe kindly pretends not to notice that Ashe is on the verge of tears. There’s a kindness to his brother’s words, although his tone is harsher than Ashe is used to hearing from him. Tough love sits awkwardly on Chirstophe’s shoulders, but he knows his brother is only going this far because he cares about him. 

Maybe he’s right. No, he _knows_ Christophe is right. Ever since Ashe became a part of Lonato’s family, he’s been determined to be useful somehow, to pay both Lonato and Christophe back for taking Ashe and his younger siblings in when they had nowhere else to go. He can’t deny that the sense of obligation he feels towards Lonato has coloured so many of his decisions. He still feels the weight of it now, at times, and it’s heavy.

But… he can’t let himself be crushed under it either. It’s not like him to wallow instead of taking action. It’s not like him to complain without doing anything to mitigate the problem. Stronger that either of those thoughts is the knowledge that Lonato wouldn’t want him to make sacrifices for his sake—especially not ones that make him unhappy. Perhaps he’s doing them _both_ a disservice right now. 

He takes a deep, rattling breath. “I’m not going to quit my job,” Ashe begins eventually, and Christophe nods, his expression softening. “But I don’t want things to stay the way they are either, so maybe I’ll… explore other options. Take an evening cooking class or something.” Ashe isn’t ready to turn his back on everything he’s worked hard for, but it can’t hurt to dip his toes into something else, explore his options. 

“Of course,” Christophe says quickly. “You don’t have to rush; just take things at your own pace.” Less than a second later, his computer chimes with a reminder about a meeting. “I mean that in a general sense. You _do_ need to rush out of my office right now, though. I have a conference call in five.”

“O—oh, right. Sorry!” Clutching his empty cup, Ashe rises to his feet and makes for the door. He should probably be getting back to his desk too. Preferably before Lonato notices how long he’s been holed up in here. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Christophe turns his attention back to his screen. “See you, kiddo.” 

Ashe hesitates by the door and turns back, his throat constructing as he searches for the right words to convey his gratitude. “Christophe?” His brother looks at him distractedly. In the end, Ashe opts for a simple, “Thank you,” though he tries to put as much sincerity into his voice as he can muster. “For, uh, listening and knocking some sense into me.” 

Christophe blinks, then grins fondly. “Anytime,” he winks. “What are big brothers for?” 

* * *

There was a time when Ashe dreamed about becoming a chef and reviving his parents’ old restaurant. 

It was impossible for his eleven year old self to hold onto the Uberts’ diner after his parents died, but he used to think of the parting as a temporary goodbye. One day, he’d return to buy it back and restore it to its former glory. He planned to recreate the original menu and take command of the kitchen while his younger siblings, Oakley and Rowan, worked the front, and together they would carry on their parents’ legacy. 

It took him a while to realize that the dream was just that: a far-fetched, impossible dream. The diner is now a bakery specializing in Adrestian pastries and the owner has no intention to sell. More than that, neither Oakley nor Rowan are attached to the diner in the same way Ashe is. They have aspirations of their own—and unlike Ashe’s, their dreams don’t involve being haunted by old ghosts.

Some of Ashe’s favorite memories take place at that diner: doing homework with his siblings in one of the booths, swapping funny stories about the day with his mother while mopping up together after closing, helping his father in the kitchen with simple dishes, learning how to balance spices and highlight flavors. Holding onto the place felt like holding onto his parents, in some childish way.

But he’s come to learn that the minutiae matters less than the important things: the taste of his father’s favorite stew, for example, or the words of the lullaby his mother would sing him and his siblings to sleep with. The warmth of his parents’ embrace, or the kindness in their eyes. He can carry these things with him even without the help of his parents’ restaurant. 

Cooking feels like a way to remain close to them, meanwhile. Truthfully, it’s the most fitting tribute to the kind of people his parents were; in their household, the action was synonymous with love and generosity and happiness. It still is, in Ashe’s heart, and he used to assume that he would spend the rest of his life sharing it with other people. 

But the question of his future wasn’t one Ashe felt like he could answer based on emotions and childhood dreams alone. When the time came to choose what to pursue, he told himself that logically, Garreg Mach University was the better deal. If he wanted to be smart, he wouldn’t turn his back on the opportunity when it could open so many doors for him! 

And though he’d never said as much, Ashe knew Lonato wanted him to attend Garreg Mach as well. Considering he owed Lonato everything, he couldn’t bring himself to ignore that fact. 

So he’d folded up the acceptance letter from the Fhirdiad Institute of Culinary Arts and tucked it into his ancient copy of _Loog and the Maiden of Wind_ for safekeeping. “I don’t need to go to a fancy school to learn how to cook,” he remembers saying, by way of explaining his decision. His family seemed content to accept that as the truth—except for Christophe, who looked at him like he wanted to call him out on his bullshit. 

And he _did_ , later, though Ashe hadn’t known how to respond. He finally settled on something that felt partly true. “I meant what I said. I already know how to cook, and I’m happy just seeing you all enjoy what I make. I don’t need more than that.” 

“Yeah, not sure I buy that,” Christophe chuckled. He’d looked a little worried in the moment, and Ashe wasn’t sure how to comfort him. “But I want to support your decision. I just think it’s a shame I won’t be seeing you on _Chopped_ or something anytime soon.” 

He knew Christophe _was_ trying to be supportive, but his oddly specific desire (and obsession with the Food Network channel) made Ashe laugh, the tension bleeding from his shoulders. “Why Chopped?”

“Because I think you could do it,” Christophe said seriously, confidently, then nudged him with his elbow. “Besides, it’s fun! You can’t tell me you don’t want to see those ice cream machine failures in real life.” 

“Well, _yes_ , but to be fair, I would try the ice cream machine too—“

While Ashe is sure he honestly believed in what he was saying at the time, things inevitably change. _People_ change. What was satisfactory at one point in his life no longer feels like it is. Maybe he’s become selfish with age, but Ashe wonders if that has to necessarily be a bad thing. 

Christophe’s earlier words loop through his mind. He’s not letting anyone down by wanting to follow his heart. On the other hand, maybe he’s letting _himself_ down by forcing himself to stay in a role that doesn't fit him the way he hoped it would. 

Holding his breath, he crouches in the back of his mind and digs up his old dreams. Dirt-covered, faded, lying in tatters, they feel like a relic of a different time—of a different person—but they light a spark in his chest, one he hasn’t felt in a long while. 

In the long stretch, one cooking class won’t amount to much, but Ashe can’t remember the last time he wanted something to work out this badly in spite of his misgivings. He wants to be able to turn his dreams into reality, however belated it might be. 

At home, Ashe washes and puts away his dinner dishes before pulling up the website for the Fhirdiad Institute for Culinary Arts on his laptop. He ignores the information for prospective students with a painful twinge in his chest and ends up on a page for classes specifically targeted towards non-students. 

Most of the offerings are for the evening, for classes on everything from cake decorating to bread making to traditional Faerghus cuisine. His parents used to specialize in the latter; their menu consisted of traditional dishes and local favorites made with the freshest of ingredients sourced from the region. Since Ashe is most comfortable with that sort of fare as well, it’d be nice to branch out and try something new. 

His search eventually brings him to a class centered on the different cuisines of Fodlan. The timings and the price are both reasonable, and he likes the idea of learning to make dishes he may not think to attempt otherwise. Before he can second-guess his choice too much, Ashe hits the **REGISTER ONLINE** button and fills out the form with his heart pounding in his chest.

Moments later, he holds his breath and presses submit. The confirmation screen lists out start dates for the course in bold letters, and Ashe scrambles to note it down with shaking hands, exhaling sharply. 

So this is it. In two weeks, he’ll be a (temporary) student at FICA. It doesn’t seem real, but… Ashe closes his laptop and stretches his arms above his head. “I’m really doing this,” he says dazedly. The thought of juggling work and these lessons is slightly daunting, but he’s looking forward to it.

It’s been too long since he’s felt this excited to enter the kitchen.

* * *

  
The campus of the Fhirdiad Institute of Culinary Arts is crowded despite the late hour. Ashe navigates through the maze of buildings while squinting down at his phone, feeling woefully out of place amongst the students scuttling around in their uniforms. Some of them carry bins stacked with dirty dishes in their arms, others pushing carts laden with trays of food. 

The place is _brimming_ with a frenetic energy, but it’s sort of bittersweet. He looks at the aspiring chefs and sees a glimpse of what he could’ve been—in another time, in another life. 

With a wistful sigh, he pauses in front of a set of glass doors. He’s still dressed for the office, having rushed here right after work ended. Staring at his reflection for a long moment, he loosens his tie and makes a half-hearted attempt to fix his flyaway hair in an attempt to look… decent, less stuffy. It doesn’t make much of a difference, and he eventually gives up.

Well, what he looks like doesn’t matter; the class Ashe’s taking is likely to be filled with people just like him. The _Cuisines of Fodlan_ course runs for three months, three times a week in the evenings. There’s no real certificate or assessment at the end, and what you take away from it as a whole is whatever knowledge and experience you’ve personally managed to gain from the lessons. It’s sure to be on the casual side of things. 

Even keeping that in mind doesn’t dampen his excitement in the least. A sense of giddiness propels Ashe forward past the sliding doors and to the room listed in his welcome email. Luckily, it’s not all that difficult to find, and he makes it to class a couple of minutes before it’s set to begin.

The majority of the stations are already occupied by the time he enters. Scanning around for an empty seat, he eventually spots one in the back next to a sweet faced woman with short blonde hair and a familiar smile. Ashe almost trips over his feet in his haste to join her, his eyes wide. “ _Mercedes_?” he ventures tentatively. “What a surprise! I never thought I’d run into you here.”

“Ashe?” Her surprise matches his own. “Oh, how wonderful!” Clasping her hands together, Mercedes beams as he sets his briefcase down and takes a seat on the stool beside her. “It’s so nice to see a face I recognize! I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to make any friends in this class.”

He chuckles lightly. “I can’t imagine you not being able to make friends, Mercedes.” Ashe means it honestly—he’s always known Mercedes to be a kind-hearted, warm person.

Though they didn’t share any classes, they had lived in the same dormitory while attending Garreg Mach University. Mercedes was something like a big sister to everyone there, especially those, like Ashe, who often spent holidays at the dorm. Her pleasant nature hasn’t seemed to have changed over the years. 

A twinge of guilt buries itself in his chest. He probably should’ve tried harder to keep in touch with Mercedes after graduation. He can’t believe he had no idea she settled in Fhirdiad after graduating; he remembers her talking about returning to Adrestia to visit her brother and just assumed she’d stay there.

“Annie was supposed to take this course with me, but she’s teaching an evening class this semester.” Mercedes’ smile dims, her expression taking on an anxious cast. “I’m quite worried about her. I hope she’s not overworking herself…”

“She’s teaching at the Royal School of Sorcery, isn’t she?” He supposes he isn’t surprised to hear that Annette and Mercedes are still inseparable. 

“Oh, yes! She’s very—” 

Partway through her sentence, the room falls silent. Mercedes breaks off and turns her gaze to the door, with Ashe following, as it opens right at 7 p.m. Ashe catches a glimpse of a pristine white jacket and sits up in his seat, determined to make a good first impression on their instructor, whoever they may be. 

The course description on the website was not forthcoming with the names of the three different chefs slated to teach this class—one for each region they’ll be covering—but Ashe isn’t worried. The school has high standards; he’s sure whoever’s teaching them will be a chef of the highest caliber. It’ll be a welcome surprise to see who they have first. 

But as the instructor steps through the door, Ashe’s breath catches in his chest. The room feels too small and too large all of a sudden, and he grips the edge of the countertop, white-knuckled, as he’s knocked off balance by the sight of the man taking his place at the front of the room.

“It’s Dedue!” Mercedes whispers, oblivious to his distress. His mouth opens to respond to her, then snaps shut hard enough to rattle his teeth. “Wow, isn’t this unexpected, Ashe?” 

“ _Very_ ,” he croaks out. Ashe wants to drag a hand down his face, but refrains. He’s not sure what to do when faced with a ghost he’s never managed to shake off. He can’t simply sit here, but… His leg bounces up and down as a curious mixture of dread and elation settles in his chest. 

“I haven’t seen him since… oh, it must have been the end of our second year. I was worried; I heard he dropped out.” Her momentary frown is swiftly replaced by a relieved smile. “But he’s clearly doing well for himself! I’m so glad.”

“Right,” Ashe echoes. “I am too.” How long has it been? End of second year… that was the last time Ashe saw him as well. He recalls going home for the summer, a brief parting in the early hours of the morning. Dedue pressing a lunchbox into his hands for when he got hungry on the road. Something that felt like a promise— _I’ll see you soon!_ And then returning to find Dedue gone, almost as if he never existed in the first place.

He genuinely thought he’d never see him again, but it certainly is Dedue up there, dressed in a traditional chef’s uniform. He’s taller now than he is in Ashe’s memories—he didn’t think such a thing was possible, yet Dedue’s towering bulk proves otherwise. His white hair is longer, tied back into a neat ponytail, and his face sports faint, thin scars that fill Ashe with the urge to cup his face and want to know how he got them. He blushes at the thought of running a thumb over Dedue’s skin and fervently hopes Mercedes can’t tell.

Chef’s white looks good on him. The double-breasted coat is well-fitted, leaving much of the muscle contained underneath to the imagination. Dedue wears it like a second skin, like he’s used to it. Ashe realizes too late that he’s staring and tears his eyes away.

“Hello,” Dedue says, his voice a low, pleasant rumble that travels down Ashe’s spine. His measured gaze sweeps over the room, and Ashe instinctively hunches in his seat, trying to look as small as possible. Still, when Dedue’s attention reaches their station, he stops, eyes widening imperceptibly in surprise. Even from a distance, they seem to glow with suppressed warmth, as beautiful as clear seaglass.

A beat passes before Dedue moves on, clasping his hands behind his back. The slight tightening of his shoulders is the only thing that betrays any reaction to Ashe’s presence, and he can’t help but fret over whether it’s a good sign or a bad one. 

“I am Dedue Molinaro. I will be teaching for the first month of the _Cuisines of Fodlan_ course.” He clears his throat, seemingly embarrassed, though his expression remains as impassive as ever. “I am the executive chef at Tamarind Bistro, a Duscur fusion restaurant in Fhirdiad, and I teach several courses on Duscur and Faerghan cuisine at this institute.”

 _Tamarind_? A buzzing fills Ashe’s ears. He eats there all the time! To think he’s been eating Dedue’s dishes all along… To think Dedue’s been _this close_ for who knows how long… his hands curl into fists on his lap.

“As you may have surmised, the first region we will be focusing on in this course is Duscur,” Dedue continues, and Ashe straightens up in excitement, his earlier discomfort momentarily forgotten. He’s always wanted to learn how to cook Duscur cuisine, and to be able to learn from _Dedue_ is—

“Why Duscar?” a disgruntled voice pipes up from the front of the room. Gradually, Ashe becomes aware of other irritated murmurs and dark looks cast Dedue’s way. “Duscur food makes me sick. If I knew we were supposed to be making it, I would have never signed up for this stupid class.”

Ashe seethes, ready to jump into the conversation in Dedue’s defense, but before he can formulate a response, Dedue turns his gaze to the speaker and evaluates her coldly. “I apologize,” he says politely. “Next month, the focus will shift to the Kupala region of the Leicester Alliance. If you would like to rejoin the class at that time—”

The woman makes a face. “ _Ugh_.” After a short pause, she asks, “Will I get a refund for this month if I leave and come back later?”

“You will have to discuss that with the Office of the Registrar.” It’s admirable how even Dedue’s tone remains despite the circumstances. If Ashe had been put in the same situation, he probably would have teared up by this point. Not out of any sadness or embarrassment, but because he’d feel frustrated by the attitudes of the people looking at him with thinly-veiled hostility in their eyes, unable to defend himself against the blatant _racism_ of it all—

But Dedue has long handled these situations with grace. He doesn’t so much as flinch as the person who spoke gathers up her things and leaves the room after a brief exchange with her partner. A few others follow her example, some haughtily, some faintly apologetic.

Ashe stays, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. Mercedes remains as well, her lips pressed in a thin line as she watches people shuffle out of the class for no other reason than the fact that they still continue to cling to old prejudices about Duscar. Dedue waits patiently for them to clear out, his expression stiff. The muscles in his face only relax when the door slams shut behind the last dissenter. 

Seized by a sense of righteous indignation, Ashe grabs his briefcase off the ground and pushes his stool back with a long, dragged out screech. Flushing as everyone’s eyes turn to him, including Dedue’s weighty gaze, he straightens his spine before heading to one of the newly vacated stations at the front of the room and takes a seat.

A minute later, Mercedes joins him with a bright smile. “I’m so looking forward to learning from you, Chef Molinaro,” she says, loudly enough to carry, and the remaining students quickly chime in in agreement.

Ashe unexpectedly meets Dedue’s eyes mid-assent and, once he blinks away his surprise, gives the other man an encouraging smile. His lips are stretched wide enough to hurt, but the momentary ache is the least Ashe is willing to suffer for Dedue’s sake. 

The corners of Dedue’s mouth lift in answer. “Thank you,” he says, quietly enough that Ashe knows his words are meant for him and Mercedes alone. A warm sensation spreads through his body, not entirely unfamiliar, and he bites down on his lip to keep from turning red. 

Dedue turns away, his voice growing authoritative. “Let’s begin.”

* * *

To Ashe’s relief, the first lesson is otherwise uneventful. 

Dedue takes some time to give the attendees a crash course on the various species often used in Duscur’s cuisine, then eases them into learning how to make a quick meal: _jeera rice_ paired with _aloo matar_. The unfamiliar words roll off Dedue’s tongue effortlessly, while Ashe struggles to mimic his pronunciation. Mercedes is nice enough to keep from laughing at his attempts.

He’s never made Basmati rice without a rice cooker before, and not with so many spices, but ends up with a decent final product thanks to Dedue’s straightforward instructions. Perhaps Ashe is a little overzealous with the cumin, and the rice grains aren’t perfectly separate and fluffy, but he’s proud of the taste.

The _aloo matar_ is more of a challenge. It’s meant to be a simple curry of potatoes and peas in a spicy onion and tomato sauce, but getting the combination of spices right is surprisingly tough. Still, he’s pleased with the results, and the rice paired with the curry is simply divine. The meal is one he’d happily make for dinner any day.

Neither of Mercedes’ dishes turn out as well as his, so he splits his leftovers in half with her. “Thank you, Ashe!” she says, as people begin filing out of the room after cleaning up their stations at the end of class. Mercedes tidies theirs up in record time, leaving Ashe feeling a little useless. “Hopefully I’ll do a better job next time.”

“Don’t feel too bad!” Compared to some of the meals Mercedes made in the past, her attempts during class weren’t bad at all—they were mostly edible, and no one was poisoned! Ashe counts that as a victory. “We’re all here to learn, after all. Nobody gets everything perfect on the first try.” 

“But you’re such a good cook already.” Her tone is more admiring than accusing, but Ashe feels uneasy regardless and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“I used to work at a restaurant.” Characterizing the times he used to help his father out in the kitchen as that is stretching the truth, but he doesn’t feel like going into the details. Only a few of his friends know his full family history. Ashe doesn’t go out of his way to hide it, but neither does he want to field the questions that inevitably follow the truth. “I picked up a few things here and there. It’s not that impressive.” 

“You’re too humble,” Mercedes says with a smile, but graciously drops the subject. They exchange numbers before she bids him farewell and heads out, promising to pass his well-wishes to Annette the next time she sees her.

Ashe takes his time in packing up the remainder of his food and wiping down the station one last time. When he finally looks up, he notices that he and Dedue are the only people still left in the classroom. The sky outside is dark and he knows he shouldn’t linger, but—

Maybe he’s been dragging his feet on purpose, hoping for a chance to have a proper conversation with Dedue. There’s so much Ashe wants to say to him, so many questions he wants to ask. _How are you? Where have you been? Why did you never contact me? How long have we lived in the same city? Did you think about me at all? Are you happy to see me now?_

_What do I do? How do I look at you and not feel like I’m eighteen again?_

Thank the Goddess Ashe’s learned how to hold his tongue over the years. Back in university, the words would’ve poured out of him in a flood. Dedue would always listen carefully to whatever he was saying, even when Ashe was going on about something unimportant—a realization he usually came to in the middle of a sentence, turning red as he tapered off, only to have Dedue kindly prompt him to continue.

 _Ahhhhhhh, stop thinking about it!_ The Dedue in his memories and the Dedue in front of him are two different people. He can’t help but be conscious of the years that stretch between them, filled with blanks. Dedue’s probably changed, and so has he. 

And yet Ashe’s stomach still twists as he approaches the front of the room, his footsteps heavy and slow. He tilts his head up to look at the man. “Dedue?” 

An eternity passes before Dedue turns to him, his eyes burning with a half-remembered warmth. “Ashe,” he says gently, and nothing else. His heart stirs at the sound; he’d forgotten how it felt to hear his name come out of Dedue’s mouth. These churning feelings—Ashe left them dormant in Dedue’s absence, but he can’t—he can’t possibly revive them now, with so much still uncertain between them.

Ashe shifts his focus to the man in front of him. “I thought you’d gone back to Duscur. When did you move to Fhirdiad?”

When Dedue vanished, Ashe had done his best to search for him with his limited resources. Dimitri had eventually been the one to tell him that Dedue returned to his hometown to help take care of his ailing mother. He’d passed along an address to a small village in Duscur which Ashe sent a few letters to. They went unanswered, and he eventually stopped writing.

“I did return to Duscur.” Dedue seems oddly hesitant to say anything more. He’s always been a taciturn person, but having shared a room with him for two years at Garreg Mach, Ashe learned to read him in other ways. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, then shakes his head slightly, leaving it to Ashe to pick up the pieces of their conversation. 

“Your mother was sick, wasn’t she?” he asks after a short pause. “How is she doing now?”

Dedue seems surprised that Ashe remembered—or perhaps cares enough to ask. “She…” he begins, then stops and inhales quietly, his eyes closing. “She passed away.” 

Ashe thinks he can detect a small tremor in his voice, but maybe he’s only hearing what he wants to hear. He still can’t talk about his parents without getting teary-eyed, and his loss is an old one, scabbed over some time ago.

“Dedue.” His expression softening, Ashe places a hand on his arm. “I am truly so sorry for your loss.” There’s not much else he can think to say, although his heart breaks for Dedue. He could offer platitudes about ‘better places’ or ‘being at peace’, but he recalls hating hearing those trite expressions at his parents’ funeral. It felt like sympathy without any sincerity. Dedue doesn’t deserve that. 

Dedue is still for a moment, the only movement the rise and fall of his chest before he exhales and covers Ashe’s hand with his own. His fingers are long, almost elegant, and radiate warmth as they wrap around Ashe’s. “It is alright. I moved to Fhirdiad last year after sorting out her affairs.” He glances down with a small, apologetic smile. “I am… sorry I never thought to call.”

“You don’t have to feel sorry!” Ashe says quickly. “I didn’t mean to imply that you should have! Or that I was waiting for you to. Um. Really, it’s no big deal.“

His mouth twitches. “I did consider it,” Dedue admits slowly, seemingly casting around for the right words. “But I couldn’t find your number, and it felt uncomfortable to search for it using other means.” He doesn’t elaborate beyond that, and Ashe figures it’s best to not ask.

The air between them is still a little awkward, with the news of Dedue’s mother hanging uncomfortably above their heads. After a moment’s deliberation, Ashe scrambles for a new, safer topic. 

“I was surprised to hear you’re a chef at Tamarind Bistro now!” He still can’t believe he’s been frequenting the place Dedue works at. It seems strange they’ve never crossed paths before this. “That’s really amazing, Dedue. I order takeout from there all the time.”

Dedue blinks. “Thank you.” Ashe is certain he isn’t imagining the hint of bashfulness in Dedue’s voice. “I hope the food is to your liking.” 

“The—um, I’ll probably butcher this, but the _kati rolls_ are delicious! I used to think they tasted a little familiar, and now I know why.”

“Familiar?” Dedue repeats, puzzled. 

“Oh, well.” A flush crawls up his neck as Ashe tries to explain it without sounding creepy. “You know, the first time I ever tried one of those was when you made them for the dorm in our first year at Garreg Mach. The taste… I don’t think I could ever forget it! It was unlike anything I’d ever had before.”

Eyebrows raised, Dedue says, “I see,” more to himself than as a response to Ashe’s words. He ducks his head, forehead wrinkled as he contemplates something.

Feeling panicky, Ashe adds, “I was really happy to get the chance to have them again. And I’m truly glad I have the opportunity to learn how to cook from you. I’ve always wanted to—well, I wanted to ask, but—I suppose you could call it a dream? Or not.”

He forces himself to stop his rambling before he can embarrass himself further. It’s true that he’d often toyed with the idea of asking Dedue to help him cook in the past—the dishes from Duscur Dedue would sometimes make were so delicious that Ashe wanted to learn the recipes for himself. But he didn’t want to seem overbearing, and so he kept telling himself to wait until they became better friends. By the time they did, Dedue left.

So he’s not going to waste this opportunity. Although he’d felt perilously close to coming undone when Dedue first entered this classroom, Ashe is going to make the best of the situation and learn as much as he can from Dedue before the month is up. He refuses to let an old, embarrassing boyhood infatuation get in the way of that—or in the way of their friendship.

He’s learned to live while being haunted by more persistent ghosts. The dying embers of a crush shouldn’t be all that hard to ignore. 

After a moment, Dedue lifts his head. The lines of his face have softened—but maybe they weren’t all that harsh to begin with. It’s easy to misunderstand Dedue; at first glance he seems intimidating and brusque, but Ashe knows he’s more than the sum of his appearance. He’s skilled and gentle and emphatic and patient—all traits Ashe admires, all traits that made his heart race at some point. 

“I am glad I was able to meet you again, Ashe.” The smile blossoming on Dedue’s face is enough to steal Ashe’s breath away. He clings onto what remains of his composure, but it crumbles away when he realizes that his hand is still tucked under Dedue’s, and has been this entire time. 

Feigning nonchalance, he tugs it back and coughs into his fist. “Me too.” Ashe is desperate to look anywhere but Dedue’s face, not trusting his own body’s response. “I thought I might never again. I suppose the Goddess works in mysterious ways, huh?” He’s sure reconciling with two things he’d cared so deeply for at the same time is something destined.

“Indeed,” Dedue says thoughtfully. “I am pleased she saw fit to guide me back to you.”

“Oh.” He flushes a bright, unflattering red. “Uh—I don’t want to keep you here too long!” Ashe says quickly, pushing dangerous thoughts out of his mind. He casts a glance out the window and winces. “I’m sure you want to get home soon.” He has an hour’s commute to look forward to himself. Tucking his bag of leftovers under his arm, he makes for the door with a cheery wave. “See you next class, Chef Molinaro,” he says teasingly, and Dedue chuckles, a low, throaty sound that only serves to deepen Ashe’s traitorous blush. 

“Take care, Ashe.” Dedue raises his own hand in farewell, and Ashe can sense the weight of his gaze fixed to his back until he disappears out of view. 

Ashe shivers as he exits the building. Pressing a palm to his chest, he wills his racing heartbeat to slow down with little success. “Dammit,” he mumbles. So much for the dying embers of a crush. He wants to blame muscle memory for his reaction, but the truth is, whatever else may have changed, Dedue is still as handsome and nice as he’s ever been.

He can’t go down this road again. He’d done it once, and it wrecked havoc on his heart. Ashe isn’t sure he can handle a second heartbreak—he can’t bounce back the same way he did before, if you could call that a ‘success’ at all. 

But he’s scared he might not even get a choice. Miserably, he thinks he might be half in love with Dedue again already—or more aptly, he thinks he may have never fallen out of it.


	2. recipe two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended to have this up last weekend, but ran into laptop troubles which had me _really_ stressed out trying to recover all my files. But everything is fine now, and updates should happen every Saturday as planned!

Like a demon straight out of hell, Christophe appears at his desk five minutes before Ashe is due to take lunch and looms over his computer threateningly. “You, me, lunch,” he says, voice clipped, a faint frown crawling onto his face when Ashe’s eyes remain trained on his screen.

“I was going to eat at my desk, actually. I need to finish this report for Gwendal—“

“ _Lunch_ ,” Christophe repeats sternly, bringing his hands down heavily on Ashe’s monitor, causing it to rattle. He practically radiates pressure, and Ashe folds with a wince.

Christophe drags him out to eat in the park across the street from their building. The weather is pleasant outside, and truthfully, Ashe’s been craving some fresh air after being cooped up inside all morning. Stretching his arms over his head, he breathes in a lungful before settling down at the picnic table with his meal. 

In the meantime, Christophe jogs over to a nearby vendor to buy a hot dog loaded with a bunch of ingredients Ashe can’t even name before taking a seat across from. “That’s your lunch?” Ashe asks dubiously, glancing down at his own pasta salad. 

“Yeah?” His mouth full, Christophe freezes mid-bite, looking guilty. “Ever since you moved out, Dad and I haven’t really been cooking a lot.”

 _Ah_. Ashe feels queasy as the words sink in. It’s true that he used to handle most of the cooking while living with the Gaspards, but he didn’t think his decision to move out would negatively impact those he’d left behind in any way. “I’ll come over this weekend and fill up the fridge for the week,” he says immediately, already making a mental list of Lonato and Christophe’s favorite dishes. 

Christophe’s eyes widen in alarm. “Ashe, _chill_ ,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mention that to make you feel guilty. You don’t have to waste your weekend on us.” Huffing, he takes another bite and swallows roughly. “I mean, we’re _grown men_. We can handle the kitchen fine. It’s just that I’m usually too lazy and Dad can only work the toaster—“

“Dad’s only been eating _toast_?” Ashe cries, horrified.

“Nah, I taught him how to use those food delivery apps. He’s fine!”

None of this inspires the least bit of confidence. Ashe shoves a forkful of salad into his mouth, still determined to make and freeze as much food for his family as he humanely can over a period of two days. He’ll need to go grocery shopping first, maybe bring some kitchenware from home, and Goddess, do they even have enough containers—

“ _Anyway_ ,” Christophe says loudly, snapping him out of his frenzied planning. “I wanted to ask you how your first class went. It was yesterday, right?” Wiping his greasy fingers on a napkin, he looks at Ashe expectantly, a little nervously, like he’s been worried about him this entire time. 

He sets his fork down. “It was… good,” he says. Unbidden, an image of Dedue flashes across his mind, head bowed slightly to better hear a student’s question. Ashe clears his throat, willing the memory to fade. “Good. We’re, uh, focusing on Duscur cuisine for the first part of it.”

Christophe whistles. “Spicy. I’m glad it’s working out for you, though.”

“Mhmm! It’s great! Challenging, too; there are a lot of subtleties to the food. The balance isn’t easy to get right.” He still can’t shake off the image of Dedue’s broad back, nor of the gentle expression on his face as he explained some part of the recipe. Ashe takes a bite of his pasta salad and chews slowly. “It came as a surprise, but I also know the instructor.” 

“You do?” Christophe quirks an eyebrow and leans forward. 

There’s a pointed pause. Ashe doesn’t know if he should tell Christophe the rest, but for better or worse, he’s not in the habit of hiding things from his brother. He taps his fork against the side of his lunchbox, then eventually asks, “Do you remember my old roommate from Garreg Mach?”

Christophe’s eyebrow hikes higher. “Tall and dreamy?”

“No!” Ashe would _love_ to not be reminded of his younger self’s gushing, but he supposes he should have expected this much. “Well, _yes_ , but he has a name: Dedue Molinaro.”

Realization floods Chirstophe’s face. He gapes at Ashe, the last bite of his hot dog left forgotten. “No way, he’s your instructor?” Ashe nods miserably, and Christophe sits there, stunned for a moment, before regaining his composure with a smirk. “So you’re hot for teacher?”

Does he _have_ to say it like that? His face growing warm, Ashe shakes his head emphatically. “I’m not,” he insists, though his protests sound feeble and half-hearted to his own ears.

Christophe hears it too. “But kind of.”

“ _Please_ stop.”

Christophe pops the rest of his hot dog into his mouth. “Seriously, though, weren’t you crushing on him hard?” His eyes narrow, gaze more knowing than Ashe is comfortable with. “You’re telling me you have no fluttery feelings for him at all?”

Ashe buries his face in his meal and refuses to answer, though he’s afraid that much is an answer in and of itself. Dedue’s only been back in his life for one night—less than twenty four hours—and so he shouldn’t be thinking about him like this. Shouldn’t be so eager to see him again. Shouldn’t want, in a small corner of his heart, for their reunion to lead to anything when he should’ve rightfully moved on, but— 

“I don’t know,” he says finally, not entirely honestly. 

Taking a look at his dejected expression, Christophe opens his mouth to say something, but, perhaps remembering his own lack of experience in the subject of romance, he opts for lighthearted teasing instead. “I don’t think kissing the instructor is going to help you out with your grades, squirt.”

Ashe flicks a balled up napkin in his direction, his mouth twitching. “The class isn’t graded,” he says, then hastens to add, “And I’m not kissing anyone!” Maybe he’s fantasized a little bit in the past, or on the train ride home last night, but he can’t be held liable for his idle thoughts.

Christophe waggles his eyebrows like he knows exactly what Ashe’s thinking, and Ashe decides then and there to never consult his brother about his love (non) life in the future.

* * *

They should make guides, Ashe thinks later. How-to articles for reconnecting with an old… he can’t call Dedue a flame, exactly—his feelings for the man remained unspoken and one-sided from the day he entered Ashe’s life to the day he disappeared. There were a million reasons why he felt it better to remain silent, but all of them sound like excuses now, with age and distance between them. 

The timing wasn’t right, Dedue never seemed interested, Ashe didn’t want to make things awkward between them, there was the _Dimitri_ of it all to contend with—

In the end, he’s self-aware enough to admit that a lot of it boiled down to fear: he’d been scared of going out on a limb and scared of rejection. Dedue would’ve been kind about it, no doubt, but a rejection is still painful and awkward and unsettles—it gives voice to a fear in the back of your mind, whispering that you just aren’t good enough. It still signals the _end_ of something, and he didn’t want to link any endings to Dedue. 

Ashe had been scared of culinary school too, a part of him is willing to admit—afraid of failing at something that mattered more than the world to him. He thought of himself as a good cook, and he’s sure it would have devastated him if anyone told him otherwise. 

You couldn’t fail if you never made an attempt. It was true for both major life decisions and for matters of the heart.

But he’s older, wiser now—things that once left him in anxious knots don’t anymore, maybe because Ashe knows that it’s better to have tried and failed than not done it at all. He’s learned enough to be sure that he wants to make the best of the chance in front of him. This time, he doesn’t want to tiptoe around the fire in his chest until he has no choice but to put it out himself.

Still, he finds himself floundering, unsure of how to proceed. It’s overwhelming being faced with possibilities but not knowing where to start, and Ashe is worried that if he takes too long, he might soon be forced to nurse another self-inflicted heartbreak.

He could just be putting too much pressure on himself—Dedue’s reemergence in his life coinciding with his desire for real change feels like… an act of the Goddess, fated in some way, but maybe he’s trying to insert too much meaning into the situation. Maybe Ashe wants so badly for this to turn into something that he keeps getting in his own head.

Things don’t have to feel earth-shattering or ground-breaking right away, he muses. Ashe can take things slowly, one step at a time. He has a whole month—and hopefully more—of Dedue’s company to look forward to, after all.

This time, Ashe won’t let him get away so easily. 

* * *

He arrives on campus early before his next class, eager to make a good impression on Dedue by being the first one in the room. Of course he’s eager to learn as well, but he can’t deny that part of his motivation is to prove something—to show Dedue that he’s truly excited to be here, that he’s a dedicated student who’s taking his class seriously. 

Christophe would laugh at his attempts to kiss up to the teacher if he knew. Ashe insists he’s not—the food is just as important to him as the chef. 

The classroom is occupied, so he decides to kill time by exploring the campus and ends up running into Dedue as he’s coming out of a building. He has two boxes balanced in his arms: one heaped with various spice bottles and the other containing a stack of papers that threaten to fly away in the wind. The corners of his lips are bent downwards in displeasure, but it’s an oddly endearing expression on his otherwise stoic face. 

“Dedue!” His head lifts at the sound of Ashe’s voice, mouth flattening into a thin line when their eyes meet. His face betrays nothing, but his eyes are soft, pleased at having run into each other. “You look like you have your hands full,” Ashe continues, gesturing to his load. “Let me take one of those boxes.”

“I am fine,” Dedue starts, but Ashe is already taking the box of papers from his arms. Not that Dedue needs the help; this close, Ashe can admire his thickly muscled arms without seeming creepy. He wonders if Dedue’s been keeping up with his university workout routine—or if working in the kitchen is enough of one in itself. “Thank you,” Dedue says after a pause, and Ashe turns pink as he wrenches his gaze away.

“No problem! Really.” Desperate to look at something else, he glances down at the papers. “Are these… recipes for class? They’re so comprehensive.” 

The faintest spots of color appear on Dedue’s cheeks; he clears his throat, seemingly embarrassed. “I thought I should err on the side of caution.” It’s very much like him to be meticulous and thorough in every aspect of his life. Ashe can see how he would be suited to being an instructor. 

“How is teaching going?” he asks, curious. “It must be a change from being in the kitchen.”

“It is… different. Difficult.” Dedue stops, his eyes distant. “I asked Byleth for advice before I began, but the only words she offered were, ‘never let them smell weakness’.” Ashe laughs into his fist as he imagines the impassive face of their old RA delivering the ominous warning. “There are things I know instinctively that I have to remember my students do not,” Dedue continues. “Ensuring these recipes answer their questions is a challenge.”

 _Wait a minute._ “Did you write all these?” Ashe asks, eyes widening. “I mean, are they all _your_ recipes?”

“Mine,” Dedue admits, weighing his words carefully before a small gust of air escapes his mouth. “And my mother’s.”

His heart constricts with sympathy, or perhaps empathy. Ashe understands all too well what it means to keep the memory of someone alive through food. So many of his siblings’ favorite dishes are his parents’ creations; he likes to believe a part of them is present in the meals he cooks for his brother and sister. “I’m really looking forward to trying all of them out. It’ll be an honour.”

With a small smile, Dedue shifts the box under one arm and pushes the door to their building open. 

“The spices—are they for the recipes here, then?” Ashe asks, nodding at the collection in Dedue’s arms. 

“Some. They are from my personal kitchen. The selection at the institute is lacking.”

He shifts closer to try and get a peek in, inadvertently pressing up against Dedue’s arm. He can sense his muscles tense at the contact, but Dedue doesn’t move away and neither does Ashe. Many of the names written in Dedue’s careful handwriting are unfamiliar to Ashe, and he studies them with interest. 

There’s a bottle rolling around slightly uncapped, and when Ashe leans forward and inhales the scent, he’s immediately forced to recoil. “ _Ack_ —that one is so strong!” 

“It is asafoetida.” Dedue remains unfazed by the pungent aroma as he smoothly re-caps the bottle. “Rest assured, the odor dissipates once you cook it.” Ashe continues to look skeptical, and Dedue hands him a more pleasant-smelling bottle of _garam masala_ to mitigate the asafoetida’s lingering after-effects. “I buy it at the Duscur specialty supermarket.” 

“Wow, we have one of those in the city?” The selection of spices at the regular supermarkets is painfully limited. Ashe has better luck at the farmers market, when he can manage to find the time to visit. “I’ve never been to it, but I’d like to go pick up some things for my pantry.”

“I can take you sometime.” The offer is simply stated, casual, but Ashe’s heart races in his chest in anticipation nonetheless. Before he can jump at the chance, they reach the classroom and the moment fades, Dedue’s attention stolen away by more pressing tasks than setting up an outing with Ashe. 

Setting his box of papers down at the instructor’s station, Ashe turns to join Mercedes, already bent over a notebook at the same station they’d cooked at last time. Before he can lose his nerve, he turns back, slipping his phone out of his pocket. “Dedue,” he calls out, fiddling with the screen. “Can I have your number?” 

Dedue’s expression shifts into one of puzzlement. He shifts closer, hand outstretched to take Ashe’s phone without asking why, trusting that he has some reason for it. Their hands brush against each other, and the warmth Dedue radiates travels down his spine, rendering him blank for a moment. 

Ashe doesn’t have a reason, and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “For the—supermarket! Directions, in case I want to go. And, uh, recipes…” He’s afraid Dedue will say no; he’s aware that he may be overstepping by asking. They may be old friends, but Dedue might not want to be connected to him beyond the boundaries of this class.

But Dedue swiftly enters his number into Ashe’s phone and hands it back with a smile, faint enough that Ashe would’ve missed it had he not been searching for it. “I have given you both my work and personal numbers,” he says. 

Ashe stares down at the screen and swallows as he swipes a finger over the screen. Dedue’s contact name winks up at him: **Dedue M.** “I swear I won’t message you about anything… dumb.” He slips it back in his pockets and pats it nervously. This feels like a big step—a prelude to maybe seeing him outside of class, if Ashe can ever push himself to ask. 

“I would not mind.” Silent for a moment, Dedue then says, completely deadpan, “You could not possibly send me anything worse than Sylvain’s memes.”

A laugh bursts out of Ashe’s mouth. “Sylvain’s memes sure are something,” he agrees. “But—alright. Alright! We’ll keep in touch.” It sounds like a promise to his ears, and Ashe means it as one as well. He feels better knowing he has some link to Dedue, some way to tether him to the man should he vanish once again.

“I would like that,” Dedue says, resting a companionable hand on his shoulder before returning to his station. Ashe watches him leave and pats the phone tucked safely in his pocket once more to reassure him that it’s still there. 

* * *

It’s only their second class, and yet a third of the course’s original attendees are gone. Dedue doesn’t seem to mind the empty spaces, but Ashe does. It baffles him how people can still stubbornly hold onto their antiquated prejudices against Duscur. The region’s been a part of Faerghus for centuries now, and its people are hardly the alien ‘other’ to be feared. But in Fhirdiad, where old bloodlines and pretensions endure, so do preconceptions.

But if Dedue does not want to waste any energy on people like that, then Ashe won’t bring it up either. He’s content to enjoy the relaxed atmosphere of the class now that the dissenters are gone. Dedue seems more comfortable up at the front as well, the stiffness in his posture fading as he looks out at the people who want to be here and greets them with almost a smile. 

The evening’s class is a casual one focusing on snacks and street food. The mass of recipes, as it turns out, are all different—each station gets to try their hand at a unique dish, and Dedue encourages them to mingle and move to different ones throughout the course of the class as a way to get to know each other. 

After helping Mercedes with their spiced vegetable fritters, Ashe rotates to a station with a young, green-haired woman who approaches the task with a great deal of enthusiasm. Her name is Flayn, and as Ashe soon learns, she’s no stranger to the Institute.

“I’ve taken a number of classes here over the past year!” she says cheerfully, reaching for the seasoning while Ashe reads over the recipe again. “And I am confident in my culinary skills.” 

“That’s really wonderful; I’m sure you know your way around the kitchen, then,” he says, only to eat his words moments later as Flayn dumps a dangerous amount of salt into their batter. The result is inedible, though Ashe tries to crunch through a couple of _vadas_ anyway just to avoid hurting her feelings.

He’s able to survive their culinary… experience enough to join Caspar at an empty station next, an energetic man who, by his admission, has never cooked a day in his life. “Signed up for this thing with my husband, but I couldn’t get him out of bed long enough to actually show up. So it’s just me here,” he explains, and Ashe nods along. “You’re cool if I handle all the frying, yeah?”

“Yes,” Ashe nods, and then the gravity of his words sink in. “Wait, no! Please let me do that!”

By the time class is over, he’s exhausted and just happy to have survived. It’s clear that most of the people here don’t have much experience in the kitchen, aside from himself, but he’s not too worried about it. If anyone can teach them how to cook, it’s Dedue, and Ashe vows to do his best to help where he can. 

While he’s busy cleaning up, one of the younger, college-aged students pipes up with a question. “We learned a lot about everyone, but we still don’t know that much about you, chef. What do you like to do in your free time?”

“Go to the gym, probably?” another person offers, and the rest of the room murmurs in agreement. 

“I garden,” Dedue says, and everyone immediately falls silent. Ashe holds back his laughter; he remembers their dorm room being filled with various colourful plants. He even recalls watering a few of them when Dedue was otherwise busy. The hobby seems at odd with his appearance, but Dedue carefully nurturing the growth of something beautiful makes perfect sense to Ashe. 

“I like flowers,” Dedue adds, the trace of a chuckle in his voice. “At the moment, I am growing violets.” Ashe starts at the mention of his favorite flower and looks up to find Dedue turning away, as if he’d been glancing this way moments ago. His cheeks heat up; where did _that_ come from? He must be imagining things. “They remind me of someone I care about.”

The room bursts into scattered _ooooohs_ before one brave individual asks the question everyone has on their minds. “Chef, are you single?”

Ashe almost chokes on—well, nothing in particular, but finds himself suddenly listening to the conversation very closely. He would be lying if he said he isn’t interested in Dedue’s answer, but his curiosity fades as Dedue sends him a beseeching look, a silent, intense plea for Ashe to help him escape the line of questioning. He seems uncomfortable at all the good-natured heckling.

Taking pity on him, Ashe clears his throat and steps in.“Let’s not harass chef Molinaro too much,” he interjects, giving Dedue a nod. Answering with a grateful smile, Dedue hides his relief and dismisses the class for the day, ignoring the dejected groans of the students shuffling out. 

Once most of the students have left, Dedue approaches him shyly, touching a hand to his back, accidentally making Ashe jump what feels like several inches into the air. Dedue withdraws his hand apologetically and says, “Thank you for the—” 

“Oh, don’t worry about it! You looked, uh—”

“Like I was drowning?” Dedue supplies.

Ashe chuckles. “Pretty much!” He’s glad he was able to diffuse the line of questioning, though he really is curious about the answer. He almost asks—the words are _there_ on the tip of his tongue—but decides against it at the last minute. “Violets are my favorite flower,” he says instead, cringing internally at the clumsy segue. 

A moment of silence passes, then another. Ashe is used to the stillness that comes with Dedue’s company. It is rarely without purpose, and even now, Dedue seems to struggle for a second before he admits, “I remember,” in a voice so low Ashe almost doesn't hear it. 

With an incline of his head, he moves away, his head ducked as he cleans up the scattered mess at his station. Ashe gathers up the rest of his things and makes for the door, his face heating up as he mulls over Dedue’s words—and the way they make him want to hope that _maybe_ he—

Ashe lingers in the doorway, almost says goodbye, but his voice comes out as a croak. Before Dedue can look up and inquire about his health, he flees, his heart pounding in his ears. He’ll just… deal with this later, when he’s in more control of himself. 

But that’s the problem here. Around Dedue, Ashe never feels in control. 

* * *

It’s one thing to have Dedue’s number, and another to actually _use_ it. It takes Ashe a while to muster up the courage to actually send him a text. For several days in a row, Christophe passes by his desk at lunch only to see Ashe hunched over his phone like it holds the secrets to the universe, and opts to chuckle quietly to himself rather than disturb Ashe’s concentration. 

He’s trying to craft the perfect message: something polite and friendly, but not overly familiar. Something that will say _I’m an adult communicating with another adult whom I don’t have an embarrassing crush on_. Or, less specifically, he’ll settle for not sounding like an idiot.

> **ASHE UBERT** (12:33 p.m.):  
> Hey Dedue!  
> I was just thinking how crazy it is that you, Mercedes, and I all ended up running into each other again after all these years  
> It’s a shame we don’t have much time to speak during class  
> I was wondering if you’d want to get coffee sometime? I think it would be nice to take the chance to catch up  
> (This is Ashe, btw)

Ashe stares at the flurry of messages in horror, including the final, panicked one he shot out when he realized he hadn’t given Dedue his name. Before he can switch his phone off and maybe throw it into the fountain outside the building, Dedue texts back.

> **DEDUE M.** (12:39 p.m.):  
> Coffee sounds nice.  
> I have time this evening - we could meet at 5?  
> I know of a nice cafe in the downtown core.  
> [ LOCATION SENT ]

Heaving a sigh of relief, Ashe quickly replies.

> **ASHE UBERT** (12:40 p.m.):  
> Yes! Sounds perfect!  
> See you then

Christophe chooses that moment to casually walk by his desk again, and at this point Ashe is almost certain he’s doing it on purpose. Seeing Ashe spinning around in his chair with a grin on his face, he stops and raises an eyebrow. “Score?”

“Score,” Ashe confirms. 

* * *

In spite of Ashe’s determination to arrive early, he finds Dedue already seated at a table by the window when he enters the cafe, his gaze distant as he stares outside. A cup of tea sits untouched in front of him. His hair is unbound, framing his face, and he looks softer, more casual than Ashe has otherwise seen him so far. The sight does things to heart; it races in his chest, as if sprinting to a finish line where Dedue awaits. 

“Hey! I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” Sliding into the seat across from Dedue, Ashe rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and sends him a grin, only for it to falter at the slight furrowing of Dedue’s brows.

“I only just arrived,” Dedue says. He looks around, then back at Ashe in confusion. “Is Mercedes not with you?”

“Mercedes?” Ashe echoes. Why would _Mercedes_ be with him? He thinks back to his flurry of messages and sees how his wording might have been confusing. “Oh! She’s not—she’s not coming. I, uh, intended this to be just the two of us… I’m so sorry; I should have been clearer. I can call her, if you—”

“Ashe.” Dedue reaches across the table and puts a hand on his arm. “I am not disappointed, only confused.” The calluses on his palms are rough against his skin, but not unwelcome. They anchor Ashe, keep him from spiraling, though as Dedue rubs his arm in comfort, Ashe breaks out into a sweat for a different reason.

“Ah,” Ashe squeaks. “I’m, uh, I’m going to get a drink.” 

Blinking, Dedue lets him go with a slow nod.

The line is fairly short; Ashe returns with a cup of mint tea and a slice of strawberry shortcake before too long. While he waits for his drink to cool, he glances over at Dedue’s cup. The smell wafting from it makes him think of ginger tea. Dedue used to brew it in the dorms all the time, preferring it as a pick-me-up to the truly insane amount of coffee Sylvain would ingest during exam season. 

“This is a nostalgic aroma,” he says, chuckling to himself. Dedue hums in agreement as he takes a sip. “You know, I didn’t enjoy tea all that much until we began rooming together?”

“Is that so?

“I was an energy drink person.” Dedue looks appalled at his admission, and the sight of his affronted expression makes Ashe laugh even more. “I know they’re bad for you, but the sugary rush was something else.” He shakes his head at his past idiocy. “I only drink tea in the mornings now, though! It helps jolt me awake.”

“I see you still have a sweet tooth,” Dedue says gesturing to his slice of cake.

“I may have a soft spot for strawberries, yes.” He spears one with his fork and holds it out to Dedue teasingly, his eyes glittering. “Want a taste? I was told they’re fresh.” He’s not as embarrassed as he might’ve been otherwise; they’d often split food as students, so Ashe doesn’t think too much of it. 

“Ah.” Dedue’s eyes crinkle. “I’m alright. Please, enjoy.” 

They sit in companionable silence, Ashe sipping his tea and taking bites of his cake with Dedue studying him over the rim of his cup. He doesn’t feel like he’s being sized up or evaluated—there’s no appraisal in Dedue’s gaze, just a strange sense that he’s being committed to memory, every last bit of him. 

He wouldn’t say it’s unpleasant—just strange. Ashe wonders if he’s changed that much, if Dedue is chronicling both the new and the old. He wants to drink in the sight of him too, but he’s worried he’d give too much away if he looked at Dedue now. 

“How… how did you come to Fhirdiad?” he asks finally, on the last bites of his cake. “I thought you’d stay in Duscur, perhaps. I remember you telling me about your sisters—did they want you to stay at home?” 

Dedue looks uncomfortable, fingers picking at the edge of his napkin. “They did,” he says, then sighs and rubs his temples. “I was… in a bad state after my mother passed. I refused to see or speak to anyone and spent my days locked in my childhood home.” A shadow passes over his face, and Ashe immediately reaches out to grasp his free hand with his own. Dedue looks momentarily startled, then relaxes, his shoulders slumping. “Each day was worse than the last, and then Dimitri arrived in search of me.” 

“Dimitri?” Ashe echoes. He supposes that makes sense. Dimitri and Dedue have always been close—close enough that at times Ashe felt like an outsider looking in, like their bond was something he could never, _ever_ intrude on. Of all people, Dimitri is probably best suited to stand by Dedue’s side, so his involvement here shouldn’t catch him off guard, and yet Ashe is still a little surprised to hear his name crop up.

“He helped pull me out of the pit I had sunk into.” Embarrassed, Dedue lets his head fall, and Ashe gives his hand a squeeze to say, _I’m here, I’m listening, I’m not judging_. “I owe him a great debt; he supported me through the darkest period of my life. When he suggested I come to Fhirdiad with him, I… simply followed.”

Silence falls between them. There’s a strange twisting in his gut, a sense of helplessness as Ashe digests Dedue’s words. He wishes, desperately, that he’d been there to provide Dedue with the same kind of support that Dimitri had the chance to. Wishes he could have done _something_. Grief and Ashe are old friends. If nothing else, perhaps he could have offered him a shoulder to lean on. Perhaps they could have simply commiserated. Still, if not him, he's grateful Dedue had some support at such a difficult time.

“Sometimes that’s good enough,” he says eventually, his voice gentle. “Sometimes, it’s good enough to follow until you can stand upright… until you can move forward on your own.” 

“That is kind of you to say, Ashe.” Dedue exhales, the corners of his mouth curling up ever so slightly. “I would like to think I have succeeded at that.” 

“You have! You have Tamarind, and you’re teaching at FICA—those are accomplishments you should celebrate.” Ashe’s chest swells with pride on behalf of Dedue. “How did that come about, anyway? Tamarind and… everything?” 

Dedue straightens up. “I was working as a dishwasher at a Duscur-style restaurant,” he says distantly. “I was promoted to executive chef after the former chef retired abruptly, although the restaurant was in such bad shape, it was not much of an accomplishment.” He clears his throat sheepishly. “But the owner believed in my ability, and Dimitri invested in the restaurant to help us renovate. It is… thanks to the both of them that _Tamarind Bistro_ is what it is today.”

“You don’t have any formal training in food?” Ashe asks incredulously. He always assumed that it was necessary—his father had been a classically trained chef himself. When he’d given up culinary school, he thought that was the end of everything, that his likelihood of pursuing a career in the field was next to nothing without the qualifications to back him up. 

“I don’t believe you need formal training to become a chef.” Dedue shrugs, his voice measured. “Most formal training on Duscur cuisine is taught by people with no connection to the food or the culture.” The bitter twist to his mouth smooths out as he meets Ashe’s eyes. There is a sense of acknowledgement in his gaze, of camaraderie, like he expects Ashe to understand. “I want to share my mother’s recipes— _my people’s food_ —with Faerghus. I do not need a certificate to do so.”

Ashe’s never thought of it that way, but Dedue is right; he doesn’t need some school’s sanction to cook the food he grew up on—and to know that he does it well. Dedue’s skill and passion is evident in every bite of his dishes. Ashe can’t help but wonder if such logic could apply to him as well. If he can, someday, follow in Dedue’s footsteps. 

“That’s very impressive of you, Dedue. I admire you for that.” Ashe is free with his praise, but each word comes from the heart. He can’t imagine taking the risks he has, and he’s glad everything has worked out so well. “It can’t have been easy.” If anyone deserves all the happiness and success in the world, it’s Dedue. 

“I have said too much.” The edge of bashfulness to his smile causes Ashe’s heartbeat to stutter momentarily before righting itself. “I would like to hear what you have been doing since Garreg Mach.”

“Me?” Well, he hasn’t really been forthcoming with his own activities. Ashe wants to say there’s nothing much to tell, but truthfully—it’s not that he _can’t_ share, but that he doesn’t want to. In the face of all of Dedue’s accomplishments, his life so far seems… pathetic. 

He moves to rub the back of his neck when he realizes that his hand is still holding Dedue’s. If Dedue notices, he doesn’t seem to mind or intend to pull away, simply sips at his tea and looks at Ashe expectantly, even eagerly, awaiting his answer. The assurance of his touch is a comfort, and bolsters his confidence. 

“I’m—uh, working for my father’s company, Gaspard Securities? It’s a security firm. Um, we’ve provided protection for a lot of different nobles and VIPs, even Dimitri during a parade once.” He recalls everyone—even _Lonato_ —being over the moon about that assignment. Who wouldn’t want to work for the prince of Faerghus, albeit temporarily? 

“Oh, I’m not a bodyguard, though,” Ashe adds, laughing nervously. “Although that was probably obvious!” 

“You can be a formidable force when you choose,” Dedue says thoughtfully, but Ashe is certain he catches a hint of a teasing smile on his face. 

“I’m as intimidating as a mouse.”

“Hm,” Dedue ponders that for a moment before saying, “Rabbit.”

“Which isn’t much better!” Ashe doesn’t want to think about how red his face might be at the moment. Drawing his hand back, he shovels the last bites of his cake into his mouth and puffs air into his cheeks as he chews. Amused, Dedue quietly watches him wash his food down with more tea. 

Once he’s done wiping his mouths with a napkin, he pushes his plate away and turns back to Dedue, eager to keep the conversation going. Ashe is aware he can’t keep the man here all night, but a part of him is reluctant to say goodbye, greedy for any time Dedue can spare for him. “So do you come here often?” he blurts out, then reconsiders the phrasing when a passerby gives him an odd look. “I mean, um, do you visit this cafe often? It’s a lovely place.” 

“I live nearby.” Dedue points to an apartment building in the direction he’d been looking when Ashe first arrived. “Dimitri has a penthouse apartment in one of the residential buildings owned by the Crown. I stay with him.” His smile turns soft, affectionate as he thinks of home. “Our kitchen is state-of-the-art. I’m sure you would enjoy it.” 

“Oh.” If Dedue came to Fhirdiad on account of Dimitri, it makes sense that they’d be living together. Still, the use of ‘our’ instead of ‘his’ when describing the kitchen gives Ashe pause. “Are you and Dimitri, uh, are the two of you—” He’s forced to cut his own attempt at asking that delicate question short. 

Dedue seems unsure of what he’s trying to ask, but attempts to answer anyway. “We are still close, yes.” 

“I… see.” It’s ambiguous—not ‘friends’ or ‘dating’, not a concrete explanation of their relationship, but then again, it’s no different than when they were in university. 

He’d never been sure if Dedue and Dimitri were romantically involved or straddling some sort of line—or just what they appeared to be: really good friends. Ashe never sought clarification; you couldn’t go up to the _prince_ to ask him about his love life, and Dedue wasn’t the type to entertain such questions. In the end, he’d simply assumed that there was _something_ between them, and it played a big part in why he had never tried to ask Dedue out. 

Between Dimitri and Ashe, it was obvious who Dedue would— _should_ —choose. 

A lump forms in his throat. He feels foolish for making one-sided plans to win Dedue over, for thinking about ways to move into something more than just friendship with him, for daydreaming about—

But he’s not a teenager anymore, unsure and hesitant, willing to give up on something before he’s even started. He resolved not to let this chance slip by, and he’s not going to just because Dedue and Dimitri are still whatever they are. Dedue is an honest person; if they were together, he would admit as much. There’s no reason for Dimitri’s presence to derail anything between Ashe and Dedue. He has to believe that. 

“Ashe?” Dedue prompts gently, touching the back of his hand, and Ashe starts with a jolt. 

“Sorry! I was just lost in my thoughts.” He offers Dedue an apologetic smile. “I would love to see your kitchen someday, Dedue. Maybe you and Dimitri should host a party, invite the old Blue Lions crowd. It’d be nice to get everyone together.” 

“It would.” Although he agrees readily, there’s a stiffness to Dedue’s expression as he hesitates before saying, “However, I would like to invite you—only you—over first.”

“Oh,” Ashe says dumbly, then, “ _Oh!_ Yes—I mean, yeah. Anytime. I’m free… whenever. Whenever you are, that is.” Ashe wants to wince at how breathless and stupid he sounds, but he can’t manage anything else. He feels like he’s floating, buoyed along by Dedue’s offer. _Only him_. The part of him that advises caution is drowned out by the part of Ashe that wants to believe that those words mean something. “Just let me know!” 

“Soon,” Dedue promises, his mouth curving into a smile. They make small talk for a while longer before Dedue receives a call and bids Ashe farewell. Waving goodbye outside the cafe, Ashe begins heading towards the station with a spring in his step. 

_Soon._

He can’t wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read and commented so far—I've not had the chance to reply to them yet, but rest assured I've read and appreciated every single one and will respond soon!


	3. recipe three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely artwork embedded in this chapter was done by Jess ([@chuminder](https://twitter.com/chuminder)). You can view the full version [here](https://i.ibb.co/bPFCkQB/ashedueaubb-f1.jpg)!

Things in the Gaspard-Ubert family rarely stay a secret for long. In all fairness, Ashe never _specifically_ asked Christophe not to tell anyone about his cooking classes or his crush on his instructor, but he assumed it was sort of a given. Christophe, however, seems to have interpreted things much differently. 

At least he has the decency to look sheepish as the grainy image of their sister stares at them from Christophe’s tablet, impatient for Ashe to give her the details. Her silver hair, so similar to his own, is tied up in a messy bun, her glasses sliding down her nose as she presses her face closer to the screen. Ashe fails to understand how Oakley has the time to do deep dives into her brothers’ lives like this while busy with her pre-law degree. Maybe she has some kind of supernatural power... for gossip.

Admittedly, his current predicament is mostly his fault; he walked into this by letting Christophe answer the video call. Then again, Ashe muses, he was hardly expecting to be ambushed by his suspiciously well-informed sister, so perhaps he isn’t the only one to blame.

“So you did get his number, right?” Oakley asks. Her voice breaks in the middle of her sentence, and Christophe reaches over to where the tablet is propped up on the counter and taps the screen, as if that’s going to help with the wifi signal in any way. She ignores Christophe’s fumbling and presses on. “Please tell me you text him outside of class.”

“I… I do!” While on call with Oakley, Ashe bustles around the Gaspards’ kitchen, busy preparing lasagna to make and freeze for Christophe and Lonato to eat during the week. Multi-tasking, especially in the kitchen, has always been one of his strengths, so it’s not too much of a challenge to split his focus. Christophe, meanwhile, has taken it upon himself to ‘help’ out, which means he’s offered to wash all the dishes and keep up a running commentary from the sidelines. “I ask him about class and, uh, recipes? Sometimes we talk about old times.”

“That’s all?” Oakley repeats, incredulous. “Recipes? Class? _Ashe_.” 

“What?” He doesn’t mean to sound so defensive, but he likes his conversations with Dedue! They’re interesting and fun, and Dedue seems to enjoy them too. He’s certainly never left Ashe hanging in the midst of a conversation.

Oakley pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “Okay,” she says. “Give me a second to think.” She sinks into deep thought while Ashe and Christophe exchange a pointed look, then claps her hands together. “You should send him an OotD photo and then be like ‘whoops haha how did that shirtless gym selfie get in there! My bad!’”

“I hate that I have to ask,” Christophe begins, raising a hand. “But _what_ is an OotD photo?”

“Outfit of the Day.” Ashe directs his answer to Christophe before turning back to the screen. “Great idea, except for the fact that I don’t go to the gym and I’m not sure I want him to see me shirtless.” _Yet_. Maybe eventually, but—it’s a distant thought, and not one he entertains often! Ashe fights to keep down the blush threatening to rise to his cheeks, not wanting either of his siblings to question him about him.

“Well, maybe you should start.” Oakley pauses for a moment to check something off-screen, then turns back to glare at Ashe. “You should text him more often about all kinds of stuff, Ashe! Yours should be the first name he sees in the morning and the last name he sees before going to bed.”

“Actually,” Christophe interjects quickly. “I wouldn’t suggest doing that? Seems kind of pushy.”

Oakley looks at him and scoffs. “Are you going to listen to me, love doctor of Garreg Mach, or the guy who hasn’t dated anyone since his high school sweetheart dumped him on his birthday ages ago?”

“Hey! We’re still good friends!” Christophe’s indignation fades as Oakley looks unimpressed by his protests. More quietly, he adds, “Also, she broke up with me because she liked girls, not because I was an awful boyfriend. I think.” 

“Okay, cool. So do I.” With a roll of her eyes, Oakley leans forward and steeples her fingers. “Fine, then have you asked Glenn out yet?”

“Wait, hey, this is supposed to be about _Ashe_ , not me!”

Ashe loves his siblings. Really, he does. He believes they’re fundamentally good people. Does he sometimes tire of them? Yes, but that doesn’t make him a bad brother. It’s kind of an occupational hazard of having siblings: you can care about them and wish they came with a mute button all in the same breath. He’d be smashing the mute button right now if he could.

Once the lasagna is in the oven, Ashe joins Christophe at the table and tries to drown out the bickering surrounding him. Thank the Goddess Lonato is out golfing with his friends today and doesn’t have to hear all this. “Oakley,” he says finally. “ _Please_ do not tell me you’re… dating your way through the campus or something.” 

“Relax, I have a girlfriend.” She waves a dismissive hand in the air before her laser sharp gaze refocuses on Ashe. “Anyway, trust me! You need to appeal to your guy somehow. Normally, I’d say stick to your strengths—so _food_ —but if he’s a chef—”

“A good one,” Ashe adds. 

“—a _good_ one, then you don’t have a choice. It’s either sex appeal or you figure out a way to become his emotional crutch and go from there.”

Why are those his only options? “Uh, he already has—he’s really close emotionally to someone already,” Ashe says quickly, his mind flashing to Dimitri. Both Christophe and Oakley stare at him blankly at this admission. “I actually wondered—well, I still do a bit—if they’re romantically involved. Or were.” 

“What does this guy look like? Not yours, the other one?” Oakley asks. 

“A bit like… prince Dimitri?” He can’t admit it is Dimitri, but he doesn’t think his siblings will immediately jump to that conclusion if he dances around it. “Same general body… and face… he could win a lookalike contest, probably.” So maybe he’s really pushing it, but neither of them seem to catch on.

Oakley is quiet for so long he thinks the screen might’ve frozen. Then, “You should _definitely_ start working out,” she says gravelly. Ashe chuckles, but her expression doesn’t break. Suddenly nervous, he glances over at Christophe, who only chimes in agreement with a wince.

Slumped low in his seat, Ashe closes his eyes and puts a hand on his soft, albeit flat, stomach. Should he really start hitting the gym? He’d rather just… _eat_ , really. This is one lifestyle change he’s really not looking forward to, thanks.

* * *

Encouraged (more like badgered) by his siblings, Ashe spends his lunch break the next day looking into gyms near his apartment. None of them seem appealing to him, and he eventually gives up the search and heads to the FICA campus for class in a sour mood. 

Honestly, he’s pretty sure Dedue isn’t the type to care about appearances; he’s never come across as shallow in the years Ashe’s known him. He would like to believe that Dedue cares more about the substance of a person than their physical appearance. 

Although—when he thinks about it, all of their friends, past and present, happen to be _unreasonably_ attractive, so maybe that’s something Dedue hasn’t had to grapple with yet. The average hotness level within their social circle is alarmingly high, actually. The combination of Dimitri and Sylvain alone is killer. 

Meanwhile Ashe is… _Ashe_. He’s scrawny and short and covered in freckles—his only good points are his eyes, perhaps. People seem to like the color. Otherwise, he doesn’t think of himself as particularly desirable. But in spite of that, he can’t deny that he wants Dedue to look at him with a simmering heat in his eyes—like he _wants_ Ashe.

His head rattling with dangerous thoughts, Ashe nearly bumps into Caspar on his way into the classroom. “Sorry, my bad.” Caspar takes a step back to allow him through first with an apologetic smile.

“No, that was my fault! I wasn’t paying attention.” Shooting him a grateful smile, Ashe enters the room and heads to his favorite station. Caspar follows at his heels, dropping his bag on the floor beside the station behind Ashe. While Caspar slips on his apron, Ashe’s eyes catch on a gym logo emblazoned on the side of the bag and widen. “Caspar, you work out, right?” 

“I’m a personal trainer.” Caspar grins proudly, giving him a double thumbs up. “But yeah, I try to stay in shape in my free time too. Why?” 

A personal trainer—Ashe can see it. Caspar might be on the shorter side like him, but he’s bulky and heavily muscled. “I’m thinking of joining a gym, so… just trying to collect opinions, I guess. Options.” He shrugs and scratches his cheek. “I’m a bit in over my head right now.” 

“You want to start working out?” Ashe half expects Caspar to laugh at him, but instead he nods thoughtfully as he considers Ashe’s words. “Cool! Well, I can offer you a free session at my gym—just to show you the ropes and get ya settled in.”

“Uh.” How does Ashe explain that he’s interested, but also not at the same time? He’s curious, but not enough to commit to any sessions. Although.. it’s probably better to have some guidance than jump into things headfirst and risk hurting himself, isn’t it?

“If you intend to start working out, you’re free to join me and Dimitri,” comes a voice from behind him. Ashe nearly jumps out of his seat in his haste to turn around and finds Dedue hovering behind him. He offers Ashe a small smile when their eyes meet. “Our building has a state-of-the-art gym, and Dimitri employs some fine personal trainers in his service.”

“Um, no. That’s alright.” The last thing Ashe wants is for Dedue to see how bad of a shape he’s in at the moment. Ashe just wants him to marvel at the finished product, not gawk at the frumpy in-between parts of his journey. “Caspar’s gym sounds great. I’ll message you later about a trial membership, okay?” he adds quickly, turning back to Caspar. 

“Sure, just let me get your number.” 

Ashe can sense the confusion weighing on Dedue’s face as he trades numbers with Caspar. He can see how his behaviour might not make any sense, especially considering that he hasn’t been subtle in his attempts to spend more time with Dedue so far. No excuse comes to mind, so Ashe decides to stick as close to the truth as he can. “I just think you and Dimitri are too advanced for someone at my level… I appreciate the offer though, Dedue!” 

As nice as it would be to have the chance to ogle a sweaty Dedue lifting weights, Ashe doesn’t want to risk looking stupid or inept in front of him. 

The confusion clears from Dedue’s expression. “Of course. Good luck.” Giving him a pat on the shoulder, Dedue returns to the front of the room and resumes setting up. Ashe sags against his station and runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. His gaze lingers on Dedue’s broad back until forces himself to tear it away.

Once Dedue is out of earshot, Caspar whistles. “That guy could _easily_ bench press you,” he remarks. Ashe has to fight back the urge to cover his face with both hands because Caspar is _right_ and maybe he’s intrigued by the thought of it. _No, bad Ashe! You’re here for food, not whatever Dedue is. A meal._

Returning to his station, Ashe does a mental reset to prepare himself for the start of the class. Once he regains his focus, he notices that Mercedes isn’t here yet. It’s not like her to be late for anything. A frown crosses over his face as he pulls out his phone to check his messages for any hint of Mercedes’ whereabouts. Dedue seems to come to the same realization moments after Ashe does and hesitates to get going without her. 

But before Ashe can text her to ask where she is and if everything is okay, Mercedes breezes into the room with a tray of cupcakes in her hands, her hair flying around in disarray. “I am so sorry, everyone!” she cries. “I was icing cupcakes and lost track of time. I promise it won’t happen again.” 

“Cupcakes?” Ashe echoes. Mercedes is a phenomenal baker; even though it’s been a while since he last had the chance to try one of her creations, he still remembers the taste of them—just sweet enough and baked with a lot of love.

Mercedes beams. “Yes! I made too many today and thought it might be nice to share the extras with the class—if that’s alright with you, chef Molinaro,” she says, looking to Dedue for permission. 

Chuckling, Dedue takes the tray from her hands and sets it down at his station. Ashe’s mouth waters at the sight of the rich chocolate cake covered with thick purple buttercream frosting. “Thank you for the treat, Mercedes. I hope I’ll be allowed to try one.” 

“Don’t be silly, chef! Please help yourself.” Mercedes immediately passes one to Dedue, who accepts it with a grateful smile before stepping away to allow the rest of the class access. 

They converge on the tray abuzz with excitement while Mercedes watches, pleased. Ashe stays back until almost everyone has returned to their seats with one. He desperately wants to try a cupcake, but he’s fine with giving everyone else a chance to taste it first.

Noting his hesitation, Caspar grins teasingly as he takes two cupcakes right in front of everyone without even an ounce of shame. “Ashe can’t have one because he’s going to start working out. Gotta fix that diet.” 

Mercedes wilts. “You’re not going to try one?” 

“Of course I am!” Ashe makes a hasty grab for a frosted cupcake and takes a large bite. It’s delicious, as expected, and he takes a moment to savour the chocolate. The slightest hint of lavender in the buttercream is unexpected, but not unwelcome. “I’ve always loved your sweets, Mercedes,” he says honestly, swallowing.

“As have I,” Dedue says warmly. “I still remember your lemon squares fondly.”

“Really?” Mercedes’ eyes sparkle at the praise, spots of pink blossoming on her cheeks. “Oh, I’m so happy to hear that from you both. Next time, I—oh, wait, Dedue. You have a—”

Ashe catches sight of it the same moment Mercedes does. There’s a bit of purple frosting clinging to Dedue’s upper lip. He seems ignorant of it, looking down at the both of them questioningly. Ashe fumbles for a napkin to offer to wipe his mouth, but Mercedes is able to find one first and holds it up to him. “Here you go,” she says, stifling a giggle. 

Taking it from her hand, Dedue dabs at his mouth before sending Mercedes an embarrassed smile. “Thank you,” he says, colouring, and coughs into his fist as he turns away. 

Crumpling the napkin he’d managed to grab a hold of at the last minute in his fist, Ashe stares at his retreating figure, lost in thought, until Mercedes touches his arm and jerks him out of his reverie. “Are you okay, Ashe?”

“Hm? I’m fine.” He’s not really sure what he was staring at, or why, but—

Dedue, he thinks later, has a _very_ charming mouth. A part of him mourns the missed opportunity for an excuse to touch it.

* * *

Ashe finds a welcome surprise tucked into his mail the following week: a heavy cream-coloured envelope addressed to _Mr. Ashe Ubert_ catches his eye amongst the bundle of bills and take-out menus. Setting his cup of tea down, Ashe rips into it eagerly.

A wedding invitation spills out of the envelope. A wedding invitation from— _Byleth Eisner_? It’s been a couple of years since they last had a chance to meet face-to-face, though they keep in touch online. Evidently, there are a couple of things he’s been missing out on. “Byleth’s getting married,” Ashe muses to himself, turning the invite over in his hands. The name of the man she’s engaged to doesn’t ring a bell, and a quick online search reveals little.

He sticks the invite up on his refrigerator before leaving for work, intending to deal with it later. But the invite lingers at the back of Ashe’s mind; his thoughts end up drifting towards it often, to Byleth and marriage in general. It’s strange to think someone he knows is taking that next step in their life. Byleth isn’t that much older than he is. For her to have found someone she wants to spend the rest of her life with already… Ashe is happy for her, and a little envious. 

Certain that she must know something about the wedding, Ashe broaches the subject with Mercedes before class that evening. “I got a, uh, wedding invite from Byleth today.”

“Oh, yes! She mentioned they were sending those out soon.” Mercedes isn’t caught off guard by the news. Instead, she glows, her happiness for her friend plain to see. “I went cake tasting with her a few months ago; it’s lovely to hear things are finally moving forward.”

Ah, so this has been in the works for a while, huh. Ashe is bursting with curiosity, but tries to keep his inquiries casual. “Have you ever met the groom?”

“A few times,” Mercedes admits. “He teaches with Annie at the Royal School of Sorcery.”

“Interesting.” Ashe never would have expected that. He can’t imagine Byleth with a professorly type, all somber and serious. The mental image of her standing next to a man in glasses and a tweed sweater elicits a chuckle out of him.

Before he can press Mercedes for more information, Flayn stumbles into class, looking frazzled as she makes a beeline for her usual station. She bumps into people as she goes, stammering out apologies. The sight of it is a bit concerning. Ashe hopes everything is alright, but it may be a good idea to keep an eye on her in the meantime. “Do you mind if I join Flayn for today’s lesson?” he asks Mercedes. 

Mercedes blinks in surprise, but takes the request in stride. “Go ahead,” she smiles. “I’ll join Caspar’s station, then.” 

Flayn barely looks up from her notes as Ashe joins her, too focused on reading over—honestly, he can’t tell _what_ she’s so absorbed in. Her writing is neat, but very small. He assumes it has something to do with class, however. “Is everything okay?” he asks eventually, and Flayn jumps in surprise. 

“Everything is fine! I simply—I’m excited for class to start.” Her eyes drift to where Dedue waits at the front of the class, poised to begin the lesson. Today they’ll be making a chicken curry with homemade no-yeast _naan_. _Chettinad chicken_ —it sounds delicious. Ashe is eager to tear into it, but before he can begin preparations, Flayn pipes up once more. “Would you mind if I took the lead with today’s dish, Ashe?”

“Er.” The last time he worked with Flayn was their street food disaster—the memories of those awful, _awful_ _vadas_ are not pleasant. Her eyes are practically shining with determination, however, and he finds it difficult to say no. “Be my guest.”

Truthfully, he’s still a little distracted by the news of Byleth’s upcoming nuptials that it’s a welcome change to not have to focus so intently on what he’s doing. He chooses to work on the _naan_ while Flayn takes care of the curry, though he does try to keep an eye on what she’s doing from time to time. 

She wouldn’t be a terrible cook if she stuck a little closer to the recipe, he thinks. Flayn’s prep skills are really refined—she only falls short when it comes to seasoning. So much of Duscur’s cuisine is contingent on a delicate balance of spices, but Flayn is the type of person who thinks more is less… or more is just _more_. She seasons ham-fistedly, following her gut, and—

“Flayn!” A choked cry escapes Ashe’s mouth as he watches her dump a startling amount of ginger into the dish. “Please, _wait_ , we—” His voice dies in his throat as she tips in more coconut milk into the pot than Ashe has ever had in his life. “Oh, Goddess.” He’s scared to edge closer and take a whiff of the… concoction Flayn is brewing. He’s scared to even _attempt_ to rescue it.

The dish her experiment results in near the end of the lesson looks deceptively… average. There’s an odd scent wafting from it that turns his stomach. Ashe would rather just eat his naan on his own than risk trying it. Flayn has no such reservations; she waves Dedue over with a big grin as he weaves through the stations, sampling everyone’s curries as he goes. “Chef! Please try our meal as well!”

“I—” Ashe should stop him. Ashe _wants_ to stop Dedue as he tears off a piece of _naan_ and dips it into the curry. His mouth opens wordlessly, then closes as he watches Dedue chew, looking at him expectantly all the while. His forehead creases when he realizes Ashe does not look excited for Dedue to be tasting it.

A beat passes. Dedue’s expression slowly stiffens, turning rock hard as the colour begins to drain from it. He seems to hold the bite in his mouth without swallowing, then makes a low humming noise and turns his head away. 

“What do you think, chef?” Flayn asks eagerly. 

“I—” Dedue struggles for words, then puts a hand on the counter to steady himself as he swallows. A full-body shudder ripples through him and he closes his eyes briefly before saying, “It is very—bold. Intriguing use of flavours.” 

“ _Intriguing_?” Ashe echoes incredulously. But his surprise at Dedue’s assessment is quickly overtaken by alarm as Dedue straightens up, now fully looking sick, and staggers towards the door in a daze.

“Ashe,” he begins, without looking back. “I am afraid I need to visit the bathroom. Can you conclude the class in my absence?”

He starts and nods. “Oh, yes, I’ve got this. You—” Dedue doesn’t wait to hear the rest of his sentence; he bolts out the door, presumably to be sick. Hopefully _just_ to be sick and not something… worse. 

The classroom descends into silence in his absence. Caught between his station and the front of the class, Ashe freezes, fidgets, and stares at the door Dedue absconded through before looking back at Flayn in worry. She seems to be frozen in shock, or perhaps horror, until Mercedes heads over and puts a hand on her arm to snap her out of her current state. 

“Oh no…” With a low moan, Flayn drags her hands down her face. “I think I’ve poisoned our instructor!”

Mercedes rubs soothing circles on her back, but neither she nor anyone else in the class refutes Flayn’s statement.

Honestly? She just might have. 

* * *

Ashe does as Dedue asks and tells everyone they’re free to leave shortly after. He, on the other hand, stays behind once everyone’s gone to clean up the classroom on Dedue’s behalf. It takes a while; by the time he’s finished, the sky outside is dark and foreboding and Ashe is _exhausted_. 

Dedue still hasn’t returned. He doesn’t mind; he’d rather Dedue have gone straight home if he’s sick instead of sticking around. Ashe will just return his things to him later. He balances his bag and Dedue’s stack of papers in the crook of one arm while locking the room up with the other. 

The last person he expects to see approaching from the other end of the hallway is Dedue, still looking slightly shaky. 

“Dedue! How are you feeling?” Ashe hurries forward to help him stay upright, but Dedue waves him away. He rests against the wall for support instead and takes his things from Ashe’s arms. 

“Better,” Dedue admits. “I would be lying if I said I am perfectly fine, but…” He attempts a smile and trails off. “It is nothing permanent.”

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve warned you.” Ashe can’t help but feel responsible for all of this—the food, firstly, since he told himself to keep an eye on Flayn and failed to, then allowed Dedue to actually eat it. “No, I should’ve been paying more attention so I could’ve stopped the mess from happening in the first place.”

“It is not your fault, Ashe,” Dedue says kindly. “You are not responsible for other people’s mistakes.” He hesitates, then looks down at his feet. “I thought you were the one who made the dish, actually.” 

He blinks. “ _What_?” Suddenly, his assessment makes more sense. “Is that why you called it intriguing?”

“I did not want to discourage you.” Dedue lifts his head, his eyes now burning with a different sort of intensity, looking stronger than he was a moment ago. “You are a good chef, Ashe. I would never want to take that away from you.”

Ashe wants to laugh at Dedue’s efforts to keep his self-esteem high. It’s oddly touching to hear he would suffer possible food poisoning just to make sure Ashe isn’t disheartened by any setbacks. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, wanting to thank Dedue for that somehow, when they’re interrupted by Flayn.

Her braids swinging as she runs, Flayn comes to a stop, breathing heavily, and says, “Chef! I am so terribly sorry for what my dish did to you.” 

Dedue shakes his head. “I am alright, as you can see.” He pushes off the wall and forces a natural expression that looks more like a grimace to Ashe, but he supposes Dedue gets points for trying. 

Flayn nods and fidgets for a moment, then blurts out, “My father is to be married soon, and I wanted to invite him and his fiancé over to celebrate… cook them a meal… so I thought I could—but I suppose I was too eager, trying to jump into complex dishes without mastering the basics.” 

Marriage seems to be everywhere today, doesn’t it? “That’s really nice of you, Flayn.” Ashe appreciates the thought behind her efforts, if... not the efforts themselves. “I could help you, if you want—maybe we can make a few simpler dishes together as practice?”

Flayn smiles. “I would be most grateful—oh, but Byleth loves Duscur food, so I wanted—“

“ _Byleth_?” he and Dedue repeat in unison. They trade looks, both equally shocked to hear the name of their old RA come out of Flayn’s mouth. “Wait, _Seteth_ is your dad?” Ashe asks, turning back to Flayn. 

“Yes?” She looks puzzled. “Do you know him? Or Byleth?”

“Byleth is an old friend. I just, uh, learned of your Dad’s name this morning, when I got their wedding invite,” Ashe admits, thinking back to the card and the little bit he’s managed to learn from Mercedes. 

“I have met Seteth,” Dedue adds a moment later. “But I was not aware he was your father, Flayn.” Rubbing his chin, he seems to consider something before nodding once. “I can teach you some simpler dishes,” he says after a pause. “You have potential; I could feel the thought you put into your dish, even if the taste was…”

“Was?” Flayn prompts, innocent and sweet. 

“... _Intriguing_ ,” Dedue says, deflating, unable to say anything else in the face of her smile. “Ashe and I will both help.”

“Me?” Ashe repeats, his voice rising an octave. “I don’t need to—if Dedue can—you don’t need me!”

“I do.” Dedue’s tone brokers no argument. He crosses his arms over his chest and fixes him with a no-nonsense stare. “You are a good chef, Ashe, as I said before. There is much to learn from you for the both of us.” 

“Well,” he begins, then stops. A flush crawls up his neck at Dedue’s proclamation. The confidence in Dedue’s voice fills him with a strange sense of euphoria—for Dedue to think so highly of—for him to say that he _values_ Ashe’s skill and truly mean it—he can’t put into words how much that matters to him. He nods. 

Flayn laughs cheerfully. “Thank you both! I am very much looking forward to these supplementary lessons.” With another smile, Flayn leaves. Ashe and Dedue trade another look and pray they’ll be able to teach Flayn some restraint. 

* * *

Dedue is able to get special permission from the institute to use the classroom after hours; Flayn and Ashe stay behind after class alongside him to work on some simple dishes—they’re not quite of Duscur or Faerghus, falling somewhere in between. Fusion cuisine, if he had to call them anything, with fewer spices, and fewer ways for Flayn to get over enthusiastic with the seasoning. 

Teaching Flayn is not as much of a challenge as Ashe initially feared. She’s an obedient student, maybe because she’s been cowed by her previous failures. She struggles to gauge when things are done, but Ashe shows her a few ways to navigate around that, while Dedue helps her with the flavours. 

By the end of their third extra class, Flayn’s managed to successfully make a dish that isn’t awful or threatens to send Dedue to the emergency room once he eats it. In fact, her _kadhai chicken_ is really good! If she can replicate it for Byleth and Seteth, the dinner is sure to be a success. Though privately, Ashe suspects they’ll enjoy anything Flayn makes them. Family is like that, he thinks. Full of boundless, wholehearted support. 

Flayn thanks them profusely before leaving, the result of all her hard work safely tucked away in her bag. Ashe stays behind to help Dedue clean up, humming as he bustles around a kitchen that’s started to feel as familiar to him as his own. Dedue easily navigates around him, making room for Ashe in his space without complaint. Ashe has to say, he thinks they make a good team. Flayn’s a great student, and he sincerely hopes she succeeds in her efforts to do something nice for her dad, but—he wants to be proud of his and Dedue’s determination to help her too. They did a good job. 

Once they’re finished with the cleanup, Dedue offers to walk with him till the station and Ashe happily takes him up on it. The first few minutes of the trek are quiet, both of them lost in their own thoughts, until Ashe finally breaks the silence with a question that’s been burning in his chest for a while. “What’s Seteth like? You’ve met him, right?”

Dedue is unfazed by the inquiry. “He is… smart. Stern.” He takes some time to think before continuing. “He smiles a lot around Byleth, though I suspect it is an unconscious response. They seem happy together.”

“I’m glad,” Ashe says honestly. Even though it’s been a while, he wishes Byleth all the happiness in the world from the bottom of his heart. “Though I still find it a little strange to think Byleth will be married so soon. She’s barely older than I am, and I can’t imagine taking such a step at this point in my life. I mean, I don’t feel like I have my life together enough to— _do_ something like that.” He’s rambling on, his thoughts a jumble in his mind. Ashe ducks his head sheepishly. “Sorry, I didn’t want to unload on you.” 

“I don’t mind,” Dedue says quickly. He looks at Ashe thoughtfully, his lips parted to ask a question he seems to think better of. “I… understand. It is strange to be on the sidelines for something like this. You start to wonder if you should begin thinking about settling down as well.”

“ _Yes_! That’s it, exactly!” There's a sense of urgency creeping onto him, though Ashe knows that’s silly. “You know, I always thought Byleth and Dimitri—“

“Dimitri has no intention of marrying anyone soon,” Dedue interjects, looking uncomfortable. He would know better than most, Ashe supposes. It would be an issue if rumours spread as well; as prince of Faerghus, Dimitri doesn’t have the luxury of just… following his heart either, does he? 

Still, Ashe finds himself asking, “He’s not seeing anyone?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Oh.” Ashe isn’t sure what else to say on the subject. Maybe a small part of him is relieved to hear that Dedue and Dimitri aren’t together; this confirmation allows him to put some of his fears at rest. At the same time, he doesn’t know where to go from here. He needs to do something, that much is certain. Ask Dedue out on a proper date seems like the logical step, but is he ready? Would Dedue say yes? Should Ashe take it fast or slow? He glances at Dedue out of the corner of his eye, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. Does Dedue feel that sense of urgency pressing up against him as well? It’s confusing, and the fact that they’re talking about _marriage_ doesn’t help. 

“I guess it’s something that may start happening more now. People getting married, I mean,” he says after a prolonged silence. To think that the last time Ashe had a significant other was… far, _far_ too long ago. He cringes internally. 

Dedue makes a noise of agreement. “Have you never given marriage much thought?” he ventures. Despite his obvious discomfort with the topic, he sounds genuinely curious about Ashe's answer. 

“Not really, but I think… theoretically, it would be nice.” Ashe tips his head back to stare at the faintly-glimmering stars overhead. “Having someone in your corner all the time, a partner to share your life with—I wouldn’t mind that.” There are times when Ashe feels like a lone speck in the universe. That deep-seated loneliness is hard to shake off. To have someone who can bring you back from moments like that… he’s surprised to realize a part of him yearns for it. An unconditional, giving, _whole_ kind of love. 

“You make it sound so lovely.” He thinks he can catch a hint of wistfulness in Dedue’s tone, but that might be Ashe projecting his own feelings onto him. Still, the gleam in Dedue’s eyes isn’t entirely in Ashe’s imagination. 

“I might be way off base,” he admits readily, scuffing his foot against the ground. “I’m mostly basing that off how my parents used to be. They’re the ideal couple in my eyes, and their relationship always felt like a partnership.”

“My parents were support systems for each other as well,” Dedue says quietly, and presses his lips together and swallows roughly. Ashe reaches over and pats him on the back, wanting to offer whatever comfort he can. He’s not sure what good it does, but Dedue seems more at peace when he pulls his hand away, sending him a thankful smile. 

Silence settles, until Dedue shakes off the melancholy and asks tentatively, “Do you—are you seeing anyone at the moment, Ashe?” 

The flub surprises Ashe enough that he stops in his tracks and cocks his head to the side. Ashe has _never_ heard Dedue stumble over his words before; he chooses them very carefully, precisely, leaving no ambiguity as to his meaning. Everything he says is deliberate, for the most part. Maybe it’s the question—he imagines he’d have a tough time getting through something like that as well. 

Ashe should probably answer instead of gawking at him, shouldn’t he. “Um, no! No, I’m single. _Very_ single.” Chuckling awkwardly, Ashe resumes walking, avoiding meeting Dedue’s eyes. “How about you, Dedue? Any, um, partners…?”

Some of the tension in Dedue’s shoulders fades. “I’m not sure. There is someone I care about… a lot. I have for a long time. I want for there to be something between us, but I do not want to rush him.” He glances at Ashe, then away, his expression unreadable. “I hope he doesn’t feel like he needs to hurry into anything; I am content to wait and savour our time together.” 

Would it be arrogant to think Dedue is talking about him? He feels as if Dedue is talking about him. The heavy feeling in his gut lightens into something buoyant, threatening to send Ashe into the clouds. Dedue’s consideration is as warm and comfortable as a thick blanket wrapped around his body in front of a roaring fire. 

“I think… he knows how you feel.” Ashe dares a glance at Dedue and finds him looking down at him with a soft, fond smile on his face, like he’s gazing upon something precious. “I think he appreciates that too. Because he does care about you; he just wants—wants for everything to go right.” 

“It will,” Dedue says confidently. His hand bumps against Ashe’s as they reach the station, and Dedue turns the other direction to head home. Ashe thinks about taking it for one wild moment, of stopping Dedue and inviting him back to his place, but—

He meant what he said: that he wants for everything to go right. Dedue will wait, and Ashe won’t spit on that patience. He’ll get there. He _swears_ he will get there as soon as he figures out why he’s hesitating to dive in.

“It will,” Ashe echoes in place of a goodbye, curling his fingers into a fist. “Thank you, Dedue.” _Thank you for waiting._ He doesn’t have to say it out loud; Dedue hears him, and his eyes crinkle into a sincere smile.

* * *

He thinks about it later—what’s holding him back. It’s the blank years, for one, all that time he and Dedue spent apart. The things he doesn’t know about Dedue yet is eager to discover, and the things Dedue doesn’t know about him. There’s too much unsaid on Ashe’s part. He’s always held his cards close to his chest, especially when it comes to his family, his background, his dreams. He hasn’t shared any of it with Dedue, but he thinks he should… he _wants_ to, before things head down a different road than mere friendship.

He’s worked hard to understand Dedue, to get him to open up to him, but hasn’t given Dedue the opportunity to understand Ashe in the same way. Drowsily, he decides that he wants to make an attempt if he can. He’ll try to be more honest with Dedue. There are things he wants to share with him soon, to open his heart and let Dedue in.

Ashe knows in his gut that Dedue will accept all parts of him readily. He doesn’t need a hot gym body to appeal to him. He’s enough as he is.

* * *

Their next class, Flayn informs them that the dinner was a success; she didn’t mess up any of her dishes, and both Seteth and Byleth enjoyed the food. She brings leftovers for Dedue and Ashe as thanks. Ashe tucks his container into his bag, looking forward to trying it out. He has full confidence that she’s done a fine job—he’s proud of Flayn for doing her best with it. Dedue seems to share his sentiments, patting her on the shoulder and letting her know he expects great things from her moving forward. Blushing, Flayn returns to her station and faces forward, awaiting the start of the class. 

As always, Dedue waits for everyone to file in before speaking. Attendance has remained steady ever since the awkwardness of their first day, and over the course of the past couple of weeks, everyone’s grown comfortable with each other _and_ with Dedue. Ashe is happy to see how the students have broken through that seemingly impenetrable barrier surrounding the usually taciturn man, drawing him into conversations and good-natured teasing quite naturally. 

“Today we’ll be making _arbi gosht_ ,” Dedue begins, snapping Ashe out of his thoughts. “It is a lamb curry with taro root. We’ll pair it with _jeera rice_ , which you all should know how to prepare already.” 

The combination is one Ashe can honestly say he’s never thought of before, but he’s excited to try it. He accepts the printed recipe when Dedue hands them out, then pays rapt attention to Dedue’s demonstration, taking notes as he goes. Dedue mentions briefly that taro roots can be tricky to work with; he’s determined to not let it get the best of him. 

Lamb is not a protein Ashe works with often either—he’s a little nervous, and his apprehension must show on his face. When Dedue does a sweep of the classroom, he comes to a stop at Ashe’s station and frowns. “Is everything okay here?” he asks, concern bleeding into his voice.

“Yep! I think I have it—oh, Dedue, can you check if the taro root has softened yet?” Ashe wants to be on top of things, but worry lingers in the back of his mind. He doesn’t want to undercook—or risk overcooking—them. “Please? I just need to get the rice started here.” 

Bemused, Dedue does as Ashe requests and steps into the station. Ashe instinctively makes space for him in this cramped, temporary sanctuary of his as Dedue lifts the lid off the pan and takes a deep breath. “It smells delicious, Ashe,” he says approvingly, glancing over his shoulder. Giving him a distracted smile, Ashe puts the _jeera rice_ on to cook and shifts to Dedue’s side.

“The taro root is okay, right? It looks done to me.” 

“Do not doubt your instincts.” Dedue’s tone is not exactly admonishing, but he does lightly tap Ashe on the forehead before returning the lid to the pan. “You are right; it is done. You can take it off the stove soon.” 

“Whew.” He sags against the counter, relieved to hear that the dish is fine. “While you’re here, you might as well have a taste, right?” Reaching for a spoon, he scoops a bit of gravy up and blows on it gently before bringing it up to Dedue’s mouth. 

Dedue automatically opens his mouth to accept the bite—and although he instigated it, although it was _his_ idea, Ashe’s hand trembles at the intimacy of the moment, of Dedue brushing his hair back as he leans forward, eyes fluttering shut as the spoon touches his lips. His shaky hands leave a smear of gravy on Dedue’s cheek, causing him to wince at the sight.

This time, there is no napkin around, no Mercedes to offer Dedue what Ashe was trying to. He reaches for the smear without thinking too much about it, swiping at the spot of gravy with his thumb. Dedue catches his eye as Ashe’s thumb brushes over his skin and does not look away, his stare penetrating. Rather than being embarrassed, Ashe feels a spark of _something_ low in his stomach, something he doesn’t want to turn away from or deny. 

Aware of his hand lingering, he quickly pulls back and licks the gravy off his thumb. “Sorry. You had something—” Ashe gestures vaguely at Dedue’s cheek and trails off. 

“Ah,” Dedue says, strangled. His face warms as he straightens up and takes a step away, the momentary spell broken. Dimly, Ashe becomes aware of the fact that the classroom is deathly quiet. “Thank you for—yes. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome!” Ashe turns back to his pan, carefully taking it off the stove and pointedly ignoring the sound of Dedue’s fading footsteps. It’s still quiet, still eerily calm, and then— 

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Caspar exclaims loudly. 

“Caspar!” Mercedes whispers, elbowing him sharply. “Can’t you see that they are— _very good friends_?” But there’s a laugh in her voice as well, and Ashe lifts his head to see a teasing grin on her face as she gazes at the both of them fondly, and encouragingly. 

_Very good friends_. Ashe would like to think so. And someday soon, possibly more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than halfway through--Ashe's other sibling will make an appearance in the next chapter, and he finally opens up to Dedue about... almost everything! I'm very excited to share it with everyone! Thank you once again to everyone who's read and commented on this fic so far; I really appreciate your enthusiasm!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/bokuto_mp4) or on [Curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/omoiyaris) if you're so inclined!


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